LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CAUFOHNIA 

SAN  CMEGT 


lewis  Morris,  "born  in 
Caermarthen,  1855.  Educated 
at  Sherborne  School  and  Jesus 
College,  Oxford,  where  he  was 
awarded  the  Chancellor !s 
prize  in  1855,  and  the  English 
Essay  prize  in  1858. 
Called  to  the  Bar  in  l86l,  and 
practised  for  many  years. 
In  1881  he  stood  in  the  Liberal 
interest  for  the  Caermarthen 
Boroughs,  but  retired  before 
election.  Contested  the  Pem- 
broke Boroughs  in  1086,  but 
was  defeated. 

Was  Honorary  fellow  of  Jesus 
College,  a  Knight  of  the  Order 
of  the  Saviour  (Greece),  and  a 
Justice  of  the  Peace  for  his 
native  county. 

In  1890  his  collected  poetical 
"'Works"  appeared  in  one  volume . 
This  included  the  three  series 
of  "Songs  of  Two  Worlds", 
"Epic  of  Hades",  "Owen",  "Ode 
of  Life",  "Songs  Unsung", 
"Gycia",  and  "Songs  of  Britain". 
"A  Vision  of  Saints"  also  ap- 
peared in  1890. 
He  was  knighted  by  queen  Vic- 
toria in  1895. 
Died  November  12,  190?. 


Stedmanfs  Victorian 
-  Anthology. 


Sir  Lewis  Morris.  Born 
at  penrhyn,  Carnarvonshire, 
and  educated  at  Sherborne  and 
Oxford;  called  to  the  Bar,  and 
practiced  as  a  conveyancer  un- 
til i860,  after  which  he  de- 
voted himself  to  the  promotion 
of  higher  education  in  Wales, 
and  became  honorary  secretary 
and  treasurer  of  the  New  Welsh 
University. 

In  1871  he  published  "Songs  of 
Two  Worlds",  which  showed  the 
influence  of  Tennyson,  and  was 
well  received,  though  rather  by 
the  wider  public  than  by  more 
critical  circles. 
It  was  followed  in  1876-??  "by 
"The  Epic  of  Hades",  which  had 
extraordinary  popularity,  and 
which,  though  exhibiting  un- 
deniable talent  both  in  versi- 
fication and  narrative  power, 
lacked  the  qualities  of  the 
higher  kinds  of  poetry. 
It  deals  in  a  modern  spirit 
with  the  Greek  Myths  and  Legends 
Other  works  are  ^'A  Vision  of 
Saints",  "Owen",  "The  Ode  of 
Life",  and  "Gycia",  a  tragedy. 
Died  November  12,  1907. 

Everyman  Dictionary 
of  English  Literature . 


REGINA  COELI 


By  LEWIS  MORRIS. 


What  shall  I  frame  my  life  to  gain? 
NTot  Riches;  lower  mundane  things 
Spread  wide  their  .fickle,  treacherous  wings 

And  who  pursues  them  strives  In  rain. 

Nor  Fame;  for  she  fleets  faster  yet, 
Or  comes  not  ere  the  closing  tomb; 
The  sun  of  Glory  sets  In  gloom, 
And  the  world  hastens  to  forget    *    *    * 

Nor  Pleasure;  for  her  gains  elude 
The  weary  seeker's  baffled  eyes; 
The  wanton  leaves  him  when  she  flies 

Bound  fast  In  hopeless  servitude    *     •     • 

Nor  Beauty;  though  the  fictive  hand 
Fix  some  faint  glimpses,  Time  the  thief 
Cries,  "Art  Is  long,  and  Life  is  brief," 

And  slays  us  ere'we  understand. 

Not  Learning;  for  her  labored  page 

Palls  on  the  soul  which  nears  the  Truth; 
The  thirst  for  fame,  the  haste  of  Youth, 

Stir  not  the  slower  limbs  of  Age. 

To  Duty  only  let  me  kneel, 
Her  painful  circlet  on  her  brow! 
To  her,  my  Queen,  my  head  shall  bow, 

Not  knowing,  but  content  to  feel! 

All  faint,  all  fade,  all  pass,  but  She 
Shines  clear  for  young  and  aged  eyes, 
High  as  the  peaks  which  kiss  the  skies, 

Profound  M  the  ualathomed  seal 


HARVEST-TIDE 


SOXG. 

SIR    LEWIS    MORRIS. 

Farewell!     Farewell!     Adown   the  wayff  <Jf  night 
The  red  sun  sinks,  arid  with  him  takes  the  light; 
Over  the  dull  east  the  gathering  shadows  grow, 
And  turn  to  gray  the  western  afterglow. 

Farewell!     Farewell!    But  Day  shall  come  again; 
Shall  hope  then  die.   and  prayers  be  breathed  in 

vain? 

Our  faithful  hopes  outlive  the  fleeting  day; 
Stronger  than  Life  and  Death  and  Time  are  they. 

Ah!   see  the  last  faint  ray  h»s  ceased  to  flame, 
Courage!  our  parted  souls  are  still  the  same. 
Round  is  the  earth,  and  round  the  estranging  sea, 
And  Time's  swift  wheel  which  brings  thee  back 
to  me. 

Come  back!     Come   back,    climbing   the   eastern 

sky ! 

Our  souls  are  deathless  though  our  flesh  shall  die. 
Winged    are   our   thoughts,    and   flash    forth   swift 

and  fai 
Beyond  the  faint  light  of  the  furthest  star. 


t  In  some  strange  place,  '< 
all  know  thy  face;          \    V 


Come  back!  or  if  we  meet 

On  some  dim  planpt,  I  shal 

3v  some  weird  land,  or  unimafjined  sea, 

I  'shall  not  be  afraid,  dear,  living  thee.  / 


'IMMANENT  IS  HE  IN  ALL" 


By  SIR  LEWIS  MORRIS,  in  "A  New  Orphic  Hymn" 

The  stars,  the  skies,  the  peaks,  the  deeps  of  the  fathomless  seas, 
Immanent  is  He  in  all,  yet  higher  and  deeper  than  these. 

The  heart,  and  the  mind,  and  the  soul,  the  thoughts  and  the  yearnings  of 

man, 
Of  his  essence  are  one  and  all,  and  yet  define  it  who  can? 

The  love  of  the  Right,  though  cast  down,  the  hate  of  victorious  111, 
All  are  sparks  from  the  central  fire  of  a  boundless  beneficent  will. 

Oh,  mystical  secret  of  Nature,  great  Universe  undefined, 
Ye  are  part  of  the  infinite  work  of  a  mighty,  eneffable  Mind. 

Beyond  your  limitless  Space,  before  your  measureless  Time, 
Ere  Life  or  Death  began  was  this  changeless  essence  sublime. 

In  the  core  of  eternal  calm  He  dwelleth  unmoved  and  alone 
'Mid  the  Universe  He  has  made,  as  a  monarch  upon  his  throne. 

And  the  self-same  inscrutable  Power  which  fashioned  the  sun  and  the  star 
Is  lord  of  the  feeble  strength  of  the  humblest  creatures  that  are. 

The  weak  things  that  float  or  creep  for  their  little  life  of  a  day, 
The  weak  souls  that  falter  and  faint,  as  feeble  and  futile  as  they; 

?he  malefic  invisible  atoms  unmarked  by  man's  purblind  eye 
Jhat  beleaguer  our  House  of  Life,  and  compass  us  till  we  die; 

\11  these  are  parts  of  Him,  the  indivisible  One, 
Who  supports  and  illumines  the  many,  Creation's  Pillar  and 


HARVEST-TIDE 

A   BOOK   OF  VERSES 
BY  SIR  LEWIS  MORRIS,  KNT.,  M.  A. 


NEW   YORK 
T.   Y.    CROWELL  &  COMPANY 

1901 


COPYRIGHT,  11)00,  BY  T.   Y.  CROWELL  &  Co. 

SONG.     (L.M.) 

Love  took  my  life  and  thrill'd  it 
Through,  all  its  strings, 

Play'd  round  my  mind  and  fill'd  it 
With  sound  of  wings, 

But  to  my  heart  he  never  came 

To  touch  it  with  his  golden  flame . 

Therefore  it  is  that  singing 

I  do  rejoice, 
Nor  heed  the  slow  years  "bringing 

A  harsher  voice, 

Because  the  songs  which  he  has  sung 
Still  leave  the  untouch'd  singer 

young. 

But  whom  in  fuller  fashion 

The  Master  sways, 
For  him,  swift  wing»d  with  passion, 

Pleet  the  brief  days. 
Betimes  the  enforced  accents  come, 
And  leave  him  ever  after  dumb. 


Composition  and  electrotype  plates  by  D.  B.  Updike 
The  Merrymount  Press,  Boston 


PREFACE 

THE  writer  is  reminded  by  the  date  on  the  title-page 
that  he  is  no  longer  a  writer  of  the  nineteenth  century 
alone.  Possibly  this  should  lead  him  to  undertake  not 
to  trespass  again  upon  the  indulgence  of  readers  whose 
good-will  he  has  had  to  acknowledge  repeatedly  for 
almost  a  wJiole  generation.  But  it  is  perhaps  too  early 
even  now  to  announce  his  definite  retirement  from  the 
literary  Jleld.  In  any  case,  conscious  as  he  is  of  his 
limitations,  and  knowing  well  that  contemporary  criti- 
cism of  verse,  favourable  or  otherwise,  is  seldom  of 
much  value  towards  fixing  its  permanent  position,  he 
can  recall  with  satisfaction  that  he  has  throughout 
endeavoured  to  follow  the  honoured  traditions  of 
English  poetry.  Nor  is  he  conscious  of  ever  having 
written  a  line  without  believing  then  that  he  had  some- 
thing to  say  which  demanded  expression,  or  which  he 
could  wish  unwritten  now. 

& 

PENBIIYN,  JANUARY  IST,  1901. 

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CONTENTS 

To  VENUS,  THE  EVENING  STAR 
THE  COMING  OF  THE  MUSE 
LE  VENT  DE  L' ESPRIT 
UK.MKMBEK 

A  NEW  ORPHIC  HYMN 
ON  A  FLOCK  OF  BIRDS  FLYING  SOUTHWARD  BY  NIGHT  12 

FOR  A  SCHOOL  MAGAZINE  14 

FAITH  17 

BETWEEN  THE  MOUNTAINS  AND  THE  SEA  18 

AH  !  WAS  IT  I  ?  24 

THE  EARTH'S  EASTER-TIDE  26 

TEDIUM  VIT^E  27 

THE  MARCH  OF  MAN  29 

THE  FREEING  OF  CRETE  43 

CHRISTMAS,  1898  47 

CHRISTMAS,  1899  49 

ON  AN  EMPTY  HOUSE  52 

LiFE-Music  55 

IN  MEMORY  OF  Two  FRIENDS  67 

ON  A  SCULPTOR  WHO  DIED  YOUNG  61 

VER  NON  SEMPER  VIRET  62 

ON  A  MEMORIAL  ORGAN  64 
vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  DIAMOND  JUBILEE  C5 

RENEWAL  70 

TERRA  DOMUS  71 

A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE  72 

WHITHER?  95 

BY  TOWY-SIDE  98 

PILGRIMS  101 

AN  OLD  POET  103 

IN  PRAISE  OF  NIGHT  105 

ON  AN  OLD  STATESMAN  106 

ON  A  YOUNG  STATESMAN  109 

LYDSTEP  CAVERNS  111 

Lux  IN  TENEBRIS  115 

ON  THE  THAMES  EMBANKMENT  116 

IN  PRAISE  OP  DECEMBER  EVENINGS  120 

THE  UNION  OP  HEARTS  122 

SIR  GALAHAD  127 

A  CAROL  129 

AT  THE  POPULAR  CONCERTS  131 

SHINE  CLEAR,  SHINE  BRIGHT  133 

IN  MEMORIAM  134 

DARK  RAYS  137 
FOR  BRITAIN.  A  SOLDIER'S  SONG.  DECEMBER  1899      138 

FROM  DAWN  TO  EVE  142 


viii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ON  A  BIRTHDAY  143 

A  FRAGMENT 

AHMED  PEACE 

THE  FORTUNES  OF  BRITAIN  151 

IN  ANOTHER  ALBUM  155 

APOLOGIA  157 

SHERBORNE 

RHYME,  THE  CONSOLER  165 

A  VISION  167 


(1924.)  Some  years  ago  I  cut  out  of  a 
newspaper  a  little  poem  by  Lewis  Morris 
and— lost  it  I  cannot  find  it.  It  is  not 
in  his  books.  The  title  and  some  of  the 
lines  were: 

To  a  Young  Girl  Reading 

With  smooth  head  bending  low, 
Dark  eyes  and  cheeks  aglow, 
She  pores  with  eager  joy 
O'er  the  old  tale  of  Troy. 
Dear  heart  and  innocent  soul, 
Thee    may  the  coming  years 
Bring  joy — not  tears. 
Will  you  help  me  to  find  it? 

S.   McK.  H. 


BROTHERHOOD 


By    LEWIS    MORRIS.  \ 

There  shall  rise  from  this  confused  sound  of  voices 
A  firmer  faith  than  that  our  fathers  knew, 

A  deep  .religion  which  alone  rejoices 
In  worship  of  the  Infinitely  True, 

Not  built  on  right  or  portent,  but  a  finer 

And  purer  reverence  for  a  Lord  diviner. 

There  shall  come  from  out  this  noise  of  strife  and  groaning 

A  broader  and  a  juster  brotherhood, 
A  deep  equality  of  aim,  postponing 

All  selfish  seeking  to  the  general  good,  . 
There  shall  come  a  time  when  each  shall  to  another 
Be  as  Christ  would  have  him  —  brother  unto  brother. 

There  shall  come  a  time  when  knowledge  wide  extended 
Seeks  each  man's  pleasure  in  th^|  general  health, 

And  all  shall  hold  irrevocably  blended 

The  individual  and  the  commonwealth; 

When  man  and  woman  in  an  equal  union 

Shall  merge,  and  marriage  be  a  true  communion. 

There  shall  come  a  time  when  brotherhood  shows  stronger 

Than  the  narrow  bounds  which  now  distract  the  world; 
When   the  cannons  roar  and  trumpets  blare  no  longer, 

.  And  the  ironclad  rusts,  and  battle  flags  are  furled; 
When  the  bars  of  creed  and  speech  and  race,  which  sever, 

y  forever. 

UioiL 


Shall  be  fused  in  one  humanit 

---    ---    UUW-L^I     oiiii    ctuu 


Made  all  things   smile;    and  life  and 

joy   and    love 
Beamed  on  me  everywhere. 

And  over  all  the  earth  there  went  a 
stir, 

A  movement,  a  renewal.     Round  the 
spring 

In  the  broad  village  street,  the  dark- 
eyed  girls 
Were  fain  to  dance  and  sing. 

Far   on   the   endless    plain,    the    swift 

steam    drew 
A  soft  white  riband.     Down  the  lazy 

flow 
Of  the  broad  stream,  I  marked,  round 

sylvan  bends, 
The  seaward  barges  go.  ... 

And  all  the  world  was  glad,  and  full 

of  life, 
And  I  grew  glad  with  it.  ... 

— Sir  Lewis  Morris. 


MORNING   SONG. 
BY  SIR  LEWIS  MORRIS. 


n  by  U'.  Hamilton  Gibson. 


AWAKE  !  arise ! 
Day's  shining  eyes 
Open   unclouded  to  the  wak- 
ing skies. 

Night  and  the  hosts  of  Sleep 
Dispersed,  defeated   creep 
To    their   Lethean   dens    and 
sunless  caverns  deep. 

Hark  !  with  the  day, 

His  roundelay 

Each   brave    bird   sings    and 

speeds  away. 
Aloft  on  circling  wings 
The  mpuntin 
A    denizen  c  . 

terrestrial  things. 

Arise  !  awake ! 

And,  singing,  make 

Thy    morning    orisons    for 

Love's  sweet  sake  ! 
Awake  !  awake  !  arise  ! 
Let  the  cerulean  skies 
Live  in  the  faithful   azure  cf 

thine  eyes. 


ling   wiugs 

g  skylark  sings, 

f    air,    scorning 


HARVEST-TIDE 
A  BOOK  OF  VERSES 

TO  VENUS,  THE   EVENING  STAR 

PURE  orb  serene  that  shinest  still 
Tho'  youth  be  fled  and  Spring-time  done, 

And  dreary  Autumn,  dark  and  chill, 
Obscure  our  brief  days'  waning  sun, 
Oh  Love,  oh  radiant  Star  ! 


Shine  forth,  and  all  is  peace  and  light, 
Tho'  the  sun  sink  and  with  him  life ! 

Hide,  and  the  deadly  gloom  of  night 

Descends,  with  hate,  and  wrong,  and  strife, 
Oh  Love,  oh  radiant  Star ! 


Not  thine  the  glare  of  garish  noon, 

Nor  fever-heats  of  wild  desire, 
Nor  craters  of  the  ghostly  moon 
Silvered  with  dead  phosphoric  fire, 
Oh  Love,  oh  radiant  Star ! 
1 


HARVEST-TIDE 

But  glowing,  pure,  with  primrose  flame, 
Steadfast  as  virgin-glances  are, 

Thro'  life's  swift  seasons  still  the  same 
Light  thou  our  heavenward  pathway  far, 
Oh  Love,  oh  radiant  Star ! 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  MUSE 

THE  shy  Muse,  rarely  seen,  at  times 
Floats  down  yet  will  not  stay, 

But  hides  her  unembodied  rhymes 
Far,  far  away. 

From  out  the  blank  unpeopled  page 
There  shines  no  vision  fair 

And  on  the  poet's  noble  rage 
Broods  cold  despair. 

In  vain  to  toil,  in  vain  to  strive, 
Efforts  and  vows  are  naught: 

No  favouring  impulse  comes  to  drive 
The  lagging  thought. 

Then  sudden,  'mid  the  darkling  chill, 
Dead  hope  and  strivings  vain, 

A  ghostly  radiance  seems  to  fill 
His  heart  and  brain. 

Far  off  and  thin,  translucent,  white, 
His  straining  eyeballs  trace, 
3 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Half-hidden,  a  phantom  of  delight, 
A  sweet  veiled  face. 

And  straight,  'tis  Life,  'tis  Youth,  't  is  Spring 

That  comes  his  toil  to  cheer ; 
Blithe  Fancy  spreads  a  joyous  wing — 

"The  Muse  is  here." 

O'er  foam-flowered  wave,  o'er  snow-clad  hill, 

She  floats,  or  vernal  grove ; 
His  happy  eyes  warm  tear-drops  fill 

Of  Faith  and  Love. 

Now  from  the  Sunset  beckons  she, 
Now  from  the  Dawn's  clear  rose, 

And  sadly  now,  now  joyously, 
Sings  as  she  goes ; 

Now  through  the  thick  life-laden  air, 

Along  the  city  street, 
Fleeting,  she  draws  divinely  fair, 

His  faithful  feet ; 

Now  o'er  the  Palace,  now  the  Jail, 
Lives  gilded,  lives  undone, 
4 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  MUSE 

Lives  laughter-lit,  or  those  that  wail. 
She  hovers  on ; 

And  with  her  takes  the  poet's  mind, 
And  heart  and  soul  and  will ; 

Where'er  she  leads,  a  wandering  wind, 
He  follows,  follows  still ! 


LE   VENT  DE   L'ESPRIT 

THE  wind  that  sighs  before  the  dawn 

Chases  the  gloom  of  night, 
The  curtains  of  the  East  are  drawn          I  •** 

And  suddenly  —  'tis  light. 


A  faint  breath  wakes  the  slumbering  seas, 
Peaks,  plains,  and  forests  dim, 

The  brave  birds  'mid  the  rustling  trees 
Raise  a  glad  morning  hymn. 

And  all  the  waiting  world  around 

Adores  the  coming  sun, 
New  warmth  and  life,  new  cheerful  sound, 

New  destinies  begun. 

So  on  the  old  familiar  earth, 

As  on  the  faintest  star, 
Where'er  a  new  life  comes  to  birth 

The  Spirit's  breathings  are. 

Thro'  the  soul's  dim  recesses  dark 
They  move  ere  yet 't  is  day, 
6 


LE   VENT  DE   L'ESPRIT 

And  she  even  as  the  faithful  lark 
Awaking,  soars  away. 

They  blow,  they  stir  the  voiceless  deep 
With  winds  of  fruitful  strife, 

And  from  the  chills  of  Death  and  Sleep 
Draw  warmth  and  light  and  life. 


REMEMBER 

THE  swift  hours  fleet,  the  brief  days  steal  the  years, 
There  seems  scant  space  for  laughter  or  for  tears — 
Remember ! 

The  seasons  press,  Spring  hastens,  Summer  flies, 
A  flash,  and  Autumn  fades  in  wintry  skies — 
Remember ! 

This  truth  alone,  upon  your  soul  keep  graven, 
Beyond  the  imminent  deep,  there  lies  a  haven 
For  ever ! 

Whither,  unchecked  by  life's  impatient  surges 
A  Power,  a  Hand,  a  Voice  eternal  urges 
For  ever ! 

There,  comes  not  Time  nor  Change  but  Peace  and  Rest, 
And  blessed  Contemplation  of  the  Best — 
Remember ! 


A  NEW  ORPHIC  HYMN 

THE  stars,  the  skies,  the  peaks,  the  deeps  of  the  fathom- 
less seas, 

Immanent  is  He  in  all,  yet  higher  and  deeper  than 
these. 

The  heart,  and  the  mind,  and  the  soul,  the  thoughts 

and  the  yearnings  of  man, 
Of  His  essence  are  one  and  all,  and  yet  define  it  who 

can? 

The  love  of  the  Right,  tho'  cast  down,  the  hate  of  vic- 
torious 111, 

All  are  sparks  from  the  central  fire  of  a  boundless 
beneficent  will. 

Oh,  mystical  secret  of  Nature,  great  Universe  unde- 
fined, 

Ye  are  part  of  the  infinite  work  of  a  mighty  ineffable 
Mind. 

Beyond  your  limitless  Space,  before  your  measureless 

Time 
Ere  Life  or  Death  began  was  this  changeless  essence 

sublime. 

9 


HARVEST-TIDE 

In  the  core  of  eternal  calm  He  dwelleth  unmoved  and 

alone 
'Mid  the  Universe  He  has  made,  as  a  monarch  upon 

his  throne. 

And  the  self-same  inscrutable  Power  which  fashioned 

the  sun  and  the  star 
Is  Lord  of  the  feeble  strength  of  the  humblest  creatures 

that  are. 

The  weak  things  that  float  or  creep  for  their  little  life 

of  a  day 
The  weak  souls  that  falter  and  faint,  as  feeble  and 

futile  as  they ; 

The  malefic  invisible  atoms  unmarked  by  man's  pur- 
blind eye 

That  beleaguer  our  House  of  Life,  and  compass  us  till 
we  die ; 

All  these  are  parts  of  Him,  the  indivisible  One, 
Who  supports  and  illumines  the  many,  Creation's  Pil- 
lar and  Sun ! 

Yea,  and  far  in  the  depths  of  Being,  too  dark  for  a 

mortal  brain, 
Lurk  His  secrets  of  Evil  and  Wrong,  His  creatures  of 

Death  and  of  Pain. 

10 


A   NEW  ORPHIC   HYMN 

By  a  viewless  Necessity  chained,  a  determinate  Impetus 

drives 
To  a  hidden  invisible  goal  the  freightage  of  numberless 

lives. 

The  waste,  and  the  pain,  and  the  wrong,  the  abysmal 

mysteries  dim, 
Come  not  of  themselves  alone,  but  are  seed  and  issue 

of  Him. 

And  man's  spirit  that  spends  and  is  spent  in  mystical 

questionings, 
Oh,  the  depths  of  the  fathomless  deep,  oh,  the  riddle 

and  secret  of  things, 
And  the  voice  through  the  darkness  heard,  and  the 

onrush  of  winnowing  wings ! 


11 


ON  A  FLOCK  OF  BIRDS  FLYING  SOUTH- 
WARD BY  NIGHT 

ABOVE  the  silent  fields  and  slumbering  town, 
Fly  onward  fearless  wanderers,  swiftly  fly ! 
Speed  fast,  speed  far,  nor  ever  settle  down, 
Unmarked  upon  the  starless  midnight  sky, 
Save  where  white  breasts  reflect  the  city's  light, 
And  from  your  rushing,  pulsing  squadrons  high 
Comes  a  faint  ghostly  cry. 

Alas !  for  the  sweet  summer  past  and  done, 
Again  the  cruel  frozen  north-wind  blows, 
Fly  southward,  southward  still  pursue  the  sun 
Where  by  warm  waves  the  crowned  palm-tree  grows. 
Leave  care  and  toil  and  fret  and  murky  air 
To  us,  who  with  the  ever-darkening  day, 
Chained  fast  must  bear  to  stay. 

Fly  on,  fly  fast,  till  with  the  tardy  light 
A  second  Summer  wakes  the  purple  sea. 
And  Winter  flies,  defeated  with  the  night, 
Then  gliding  earthward,  slowly,  wearily, 
By  some  hushed  Afric  forest-depths  profound, 
12 


ON  A   FLOCK  OF  BIRDS 

Or  windless  glare  of  some  surf-beaten  strand 
Greet  the  old  Southern  land. 

But  oh !  forget  not  'neath  that  fuller  sun, 
Our  Northern  Summer's  shy  reluctant  grace 
The  white-robed  Spring  ere  primrose-tide  is  done, 
Blithe  June  or  ruddy  Autumn's  sunburnt  face, 
The  flowery  depths,  the  golden  waves  of  wheat, 
The  symphonies  of  faithful  wedded  song 
Piped  gladly  all  day  long. 

Here  is  your  home  and  ours,  where  the  young  brood 
Were  born,  and  essayed  first  their  callow  wings. 
Here,  where  laborious  summers  gained  their  food, 
And  homely  love  despised  all  outer  things. 
Here  is  full  life,  not  there,  though  flower  and  fruit 
Unfailing  spring,  and  weal  be  yours  and  rest, 
The  North  still  holds  the  nest. 

Here  will  we  stay  content,  whose  lot  is  cast 
Far  in  the  wintry  North,  for  hearth  and  home, 
And  ye,  too,  when  the  frozen  blasts  are  past, 
Again  to  this  our  well-loved  land  shall  come. 
April  shall  come  again,  and  bring  with  her 
New  wholesome  toils,  and  ye  with  northward  wing 
Shall  speed  to  meet  the  Spring. 
13 


FOR  A  SCHOOL  MAGAZINE 

BLITHE  boyhood !  shall  a  jaded  Muse, 

A  world-worn  brain, 
The  tribute  of  a  song  refuse 

Besought  again  ? 

Long  since  to  my  own  school  I  gave 

A  humble  lay, 
Mixt  memories  now  gay,  now  grave, 

Of  work  and  play. 

The  reverend  courts,  the  Minster  gray, 

The  curfew  bell, 
Still  though  dim  years  have  passed  away, 

Remembered  well. 

The  panting  chase,  the  flying  ball, 

The  tented  plain, 
The  plunge  'neath  the  warm  wave  recall 

Dead  youth  again. 

The  happy  task,  that  sweetened  rest 

The  soul  afire, 
The  thirst  to  know,  the  unsated  zest, 

For  something  higher. 
14 


FOR   A   SCHOOL   MAGAZINE 

The  wonder  of  discovered  lore 

And  wisdom  old, 
Poet  and  sage  with  new-found  store, 

Words,  thoughts  of  gold, 

Visions  of  far-off  precious  things 

Shy  hopes  of  fame, 
Ambition,  spreading  soaring  wings, 

Love's  nascent  flame. 

Ah  me  !  how  far  they  seem,  and  yet 

So  strangely  nigh, 
Age  might  its  slower  limbs  forget 

Its  dimmer  eye. 

Again  the  hopeful  youthful  heart 

Throbs  high  and  fast, 
Again  the  joy,  sometimes  the  smart 

Of  the  dead  past. 

Not  only  in  old  fanes  and  hearts, 

But  ever  new, 
Young  schools,  young  lives  with  varied  arts 

The  Muse  pursue. 

Pass  on,  swift  generations  pass 
Undaunted  on, 

15 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Each  year  spreads  swifter  wings,  alas  ! 
Till  all  are  gone. 

Soon  gay  youth,  lost  in  manhood's  prime, 

Shall  fleet  away, 
Recruit,  refresh  the  waste  of  Time 

By  healthful  play ! 

Bethink  ye  that  the  needed  rest, 

The  happier  toil, 
To  him  alone  are  fully  blest 

Who  knows  no  soil. 

Nor  let  your  faithful  thought  forget 

That  work  or  rest, 
Him  profit  most  whose  soul  is  set 

To  gain  the  best. 


16 


FAITH 

OH  Faith,  that  through  our  feeble  youth, 
Our  faltering  footsteps  didst  sustain, 

With  glimpses  of  receding  Truth, 
Now  seen  and  now  withdrawn  again ; 

But  always  faint  and  white  and  far 
As  stars  in  summer  midnights  are. 

Not  Faith  thou  wert,  if  throughly  clear, 
Thou  shon'st  upon  us,  ever  bright, 

If  thou  like  knowledge,  steadfast,  near, 
Wert  bathed  in  all-pervading  Light, 

And  with  high  noon  of  perfect  Day, 
Illumin'dst  our  unerring  way. 

Not  Faith  thou  wert !  Ah,  shine  not  bright, 
But  as  of  old,  o'erclouded  still ; 

Let  no  broad  noontides  blind  our  sight ; 
With  dawn,  with  eve,  our  spirits  fill ; 

Not  all  thy  hidden  rays  reveal — 
To  know  is  lower  than  to  feel. 


17 


BETWEEN  THE   MOUNTAINS  AND   THE   SEA 

(NOVEMBER  9,  1897) 

IN  murky  gloom,  in  petulant  rain. 
Thick-swathed  our  sordid  London  lay, 
White  mists  obscured  the  midland  plain 
Thro'  all  the  drear  November  day. 

But  with  swift  eve,  the  sinking  sun 
Smote  the  Welsh  hills,  and  suddenly 
Behold  the  reign  of  winter  done, 
Once  more  the  blue,  unclouded  sky. 

And  with  the  dawn  the  impatient  light 
Streams  through  the  darkened  cells  of  sleep, 
Till  lo !  full  noontide  broadening  bright, 
Brings  azure  sky  and  sapphire  deep. 

Oh  joy,  how  beautiful  a  way, 
My  happy  fate  prepares  for  me, 
Who  journey  on  this  perfect  day, 
Between  the  mountains  and  the  sea. 

*  *  *  * 

We  leave  behind  the  grey  old  town, 
The  castle's  flawless  circuit  tall, 
18 


BETWEEN   THE   MOUNTAINS   AND  THE   SEA 

Thin  turrets  like  a  mural  crown, 
Decking  broad  tower  and  frowning  wall. 

The  faint  pyramidal  peaks  of  Lleyn 
Rise  sheer  from  out  the  encircling  sea, 
The  palaced  groves  of  Anglesey 
Light  the  salt  stream  which  flows  between. 

Moel  and  the  great  twin  brethren  high, 
Eryri,  king  of  upper  air, 
Soar  on  the  clear  autumnal  sky, 
'Mid  thronging  Titans  everywhere. 

Unveiled  from  base  to  summit  all 
Show  russet  fern  and  golden  wood ; 
Bare  steep,  and  skyward-climbing  wall ; 
The  fall  that  lights  the  solitude ; 

The  rock-fenced  fields,  the  wandering  sheep 
Climbing  the  mountain's  perilous  brow, 
And  sheltered  by  the  quarried  steep, 
Village  and  chapel  far  below. 

And  see !  a  dark  procession  come, 
Slow  on  the  sunlit  highway  sped, 
Which  bears  to  his  eternal  home, 
With  hymns,  some  village  worthy  dead. 
19 


HARVEST-TIDE 

And  every  word  that  you  shall  hear, 
And  all  the  sorrowful  measures  sung. 
Breathe  the  old  Cymric  spirit  dear. 
Clothed  in  the  old  undying  tongue. 


Turn  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea, 
The  dark  blue  sea,  where  on  the  skies, 
Faint  as  a  phantom  isle  might  be, 
The  hallowed  heights  of  Bardsey  rise. 

The  calm  sea  ripples  on  the  sand, 
The  oft-vext  deeps  are  lulled  to  rest, 
A  soft  breeze  breathing  from  the  land 
Dispels  in  mist  each  fairy  crest. 

Long  miles  upon  the  giddy  verge 

The  swift  train  labours  on  its  way, 

The  white  gulls  swoop ;  from  surge  to  surge 

The  dusky  cormorants  dive  and  play. 

The  stone-roofed,  massive  homesteads  grey, 
The  stacks  by  close-bound  ropes  confined, 
Tell  of  the  coming  wintry  day 
Which  wings  with  snow  the  whirling  wind. 
*  *  *  * 

20 


BETWEEN    THE    MOUNTAINS  AND  THE   SEA 

The  hills  recede,  till,  lo !  again, 
Perched  high  in  air  a  tiny  town, 
And  stern  above  the  lonely  plain 
Harlech's  unshattered  ramparts  frown. 

And  then,  once  more,  a  rival  band 
Of  giant  mountains  close  the  view, 
Cader,  Arrenig,  Aran  stand 
Serrated,  huge,  against  the  blue. 

Last,  thy  sweet  vale,  Dolgelly !  Where 
Is  any  fairer?  Oak-crowned  isle, 
Blue  river,  mounting  woodsides  fair, 
The  golden  haze,  the  unchanging  smile. 

Not  Como,  nor  Lugano  hold 

Serener  azure  depths  divine, 

Nor  treasure  of  autumnal  gold, 

Nor  guardian  summits  great  as  thine. 

*  *  *  * 

Again  a  widespread  estuary, 

And  on  the  lone  bird-haunted  strand, 

The  white-winged  squadrons  circling  free, 

The  land-locked  pools,  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

Fair  Mawddach's  charm  returns  again, 
Sweet  wandering  Dovey  dost  thou  pour 
21 


HARVEST-TIDE 

A  lovelier  tribute  to  the  main, 

Than  glides  by  Barmouth's  sandy  shore? 

Nay,  nay !  I  fear  to  award  the  crown 
Of  natural  beauty ;  both  are  fair. 
Here  the  tall  hills  seem  gentler  grown, 
Here,  richer  meads,  and  softer  air. 

Then  comes  once  more  the  level  plain, 
The  sandy  dunes,  the  half-hid  blue, 
The  sea-beat  towns  which  woo  the  main, 
The  academic  towers  which  grew 

Swift  as  the  Caliph's  palace  fair, 
On  the  loud  verge ;  the  chosen  home 
Of  those  who  hold  the  things  that  were, 
Less  than  the  glory  that  shall  come 

And  then  by  labouring  gradients  slow, 
Past  park  and  hall,  till  ere  the  night 
Obscures  the  hills,  and  settles  low 
On  the  loved  vale ;  my  straining  sight 

Welcomes  the  homely  scene ;  thy  steep 
Grongar,  long  sacred  to  the  Muse ; 
Broad  Towy  winding  to  the  deep ; 
Langunnor,  with  thy  reverend  yews. 

22 


BETWEEN   THE   MOUNTAINS  AND  THE   SEA 

Here,  though  't  is  Life's  November,  still 
Are  homely  joys,  and  sunlit  days, 
Blest  memories  haunt  each  modest  hill, 
And  wake  the  yearuiug  soul  to  praise. 


23 


AH!  WAS  IT  I? 

AH  !  was  it  I,  who  loved  to  spend, 
The  long  laborious  Autumn  day, 
Till  the  slow  twilight  ueared  its  end, 
Content  to  chase,  to  wound,  to  slay ; 
Who  watched  unmoved  the  victims  die? 
Ah !  was  it  I? 

And  was  it  I,  who  flushed  with  pride, 
And  insolence  of  swelling  years, 
Faith's  simple  teachings  would  deride, 
Taking  no  heed  for  saintly  tears, 
Who  scorned  the  upward  path  to  try? 
Ah!  was  it  I? 

And  was  it  I  who  saw  the  Light 
Fade  at  high  noon  and  leave  behind 
Dark  spectres  of  a  haunted  night, 
Sick  fancies  of  a  clouded  mind, 
Deep  sloughs  of  sense,  lusts  of  the  eye? 
Ah !  was  it  I  ? 

Yet  was  it  I  whom  from  life's  dawn, 
Some  ray  of  a  diviner  Sim, 
24 


AH!   WAS  IT  I? 

Some  heavenly  music  far  withdrawn, 
Compassed  till  perilous  youth  was  done, 
Some  soaring  angel-fancies  high? 
Ah !  was  it  I? 

And  was  it  I  whose  riper  age 
Knew  all  the  earlier  visions  fade, 
Dull  silence  quench  youth's  nobler  rage, 
Blank  solitudes  myself  had  made, 
Hope,  laughter,  sinking  to  a  sigh? 
Ah !  was  it  I? 

Ay!  it  was  I — the  pitiless  child, 

The  unfaithful  youth,  the  man  who  saw 

With  brain  mature,  and  heart  grown  mild, 

The  silent,  sad,  unbending  Law  ! 

From  change  to  change  Life's  seasons  fly, 

Ay !  it  was  I ! 


25 


THE  EARTH'S  EASTER-TIDE 

SING  and  rejoice  Soul  of  the  world  sing  on ! 

Sing  and  be  glad  to-day  ! 

Thy  Spring  is  come  at  length,  thy  winter  gone, 

Vanished  and  chased  away, 

Rise  in  white  robes,  leaving  the  tomb,  the  dead, 

Behold  the  living  Sun  calls  to  thee  overhead. 

Let  the  glad  Earth  her  bosom  deck  with  flowers, 

A  bride  with  pure,  calm  eyes, 

Let  the  still  sea  reflect  the  cloudless  skies, 

To-day  deep  joy  is  ours, 

The  Spring-tide  of  the  Soul  at  last  is  born. 

Our  Hope  is  risen,  is  risen,  this  is  our  Easter  morn. 

Exult,  oh  heart.  Rejoice,  oh  Soul,  rejoice, 

Thy  Hope  is  risen  to-day, 

Let  all  things  living  lift  a  cheerful  voice, 

Thy  Hope  is  risen  to-day. 

No  more  Death  bounds  our  lives  witli  hopeless  pain, 

Our  Sun  is  risen  indeed !  He  lives  and  reigns  again ! 


26 


TJEDIUM   VIT.E 

WEARY  of  life !  Ah !  wherefore  live 
If  Age  and  Suffering  rack  the  frame, 

If  Pleasure  holds  no  gain  to  give, 

If  Honours  pall  and  with  them  Fame ; 

If  Riches  fly  and  Love  be  gone, 

Nor  ray  of  sunshine  gild  the  gloom, 

Why  linger  miserably  on 

Why  longer  cheat  the  open  tomb? 

But  Pain  may  cease  and  Time  bring  Health, 
And  rising  Hope  expel  Despair, 

Again  the  golden  glow  of  wealth 

May  rout  the  gathered  clouds  of  care. 

Not  these,  the  pains  which  breed  disgust 

Of  living,  but  the  ingratitude, 
Of  child  or  friend,  the  shattered  trust, 

The  links  once  broken  ne'er  renewed. 

The  Faith  once  living  drowned  and  dead, 
Too  long  on  life's  dark  waters  tost, 

The  glory  dimmed,  the  vision  fled, 
The  inner  voices  mute  and  lost. 

27 


HARVEST-TIDE 

These  leave  us,  lonely,  desolate, 

Bankrupt  of  hope,  and  love,  and  friend, 

With  nothing  from  the  wreck  of  Fate 
But  one  dull  longing  for  the  End. 


28 


THE  MARCH  OF  MAN 

MAN  that  is  born  of  a  Woman  the  pride  and  the  shame 
of  Creation ; 

Man  that  soars  upward  to  Heaven,  and  sinks  to  the 
nethermost  Hell ; 

Man  that  is  lower  than  the  brute  and  yet  higher  in 
rank  than  the  Angels ; 

Man  with  vile  lusts  that  dishonour,  and  yearnings  that 
soar  to  the  skies ; 

That  can  die  for  the  Truth — ay,  in  torture;  that  wal- 
lows in  sensual  pleasures ; 

And  is  drowned  in  fathomless  sloughs  and  abysses  of 
shameful  desire; 

That  is  full  of  compassion  and  pity  and  ruth  for  his 
suffering  brethren ; 

That  robs  and  tortures  and  slays,  destroying  the  image 
of  God. 

Dark  riddle  unsolved,  dumb  Sphinx,  with  a  twofold 
nature  eternal 

That  speaks  no  word  though  the  ages  fleet  by  on  in- 
visible wings 

Unaltered,  though  diverse  in  faith  and  in  race,  for 
good  or  for  evil ; 

29 


HARVEST-TIDE 

High  in  knowledge,  buried  in  ignorance,  always  un- 
changeably, Man. 

Thee  I  sing  and  thine  is  the  Hymn  that  I  essay  with 
accents  unworthy 

Thy  high  glory,  thy  deep  disgrace,  the  crown  of  the 
world  and  its  shame ! 

Ah !  God,  through  what  aeons  unnumbered  Man  was, 
while  the  fires  of  Creation 

Burned  fierce,  and  the  earth  and  the  sea  still  seethed 
in  a  tropical  haze. 

Monstrous  growths  in  the  ooze  or  the  jungle,  or  cleav- 
ing the  ill-defined  aether 

Mailed  dreadfully,  rending  talons,  fangs  horrible,  cav- 
ernous jaws ! 

What  power  was  it  strengthened  his  arm  in  a  world 
of  rapine  and  slaughter? 

What  steeled  his  spirit  undaunted  midst  terrors  by 
night  and  by  day? 

What  else  than  the  force  which  compelled  those  isolate 
units  together 

As  never  the  brute  was  drawn,  for  mutual  solace  and  aid. 

Long  ages  of  suffering  were  thine,  unarmed  'mid  a 
monstrous  creation, 

.30 


THE   MARCH   OF  MAN 

Hidden  deep  in  the  caves  of  the  rocks,  by  the  fear  of 
thy  ravening  foes, 

Till  the  sure  blight  came  with  the  years  on  that  primal 
order  gigantic, 

And  the  mailed  monsters  dwindled  and  failed  from  the 
temperate  ocean  and  earth. 

Then  fighting  for  food,  men  with  men,  while  the  slow- 
fashioned  flint-heads  primaeval 

That  had  pierced  thro'  the  mastodon's  mail,  were  red- 
dened with  fratricide  blood, 

Till   at  last  the  faint  language  of  signs,  in  a  dumb 
world  vacant  of  reason 

Grew  slowly  through  age-long  degrees,  to   the   ulti- 
mate wonder  of  speech. 

Yet  amid  all  the  bloodshed  and  terror,  the  famine  and 
nakedness  always 

Were  the  Father's  and  Mother's  love,  and  the  innocent 
smile  of  the  child. 

Oh  ages,  known  only  to  God !  Oh  dim  generations  for- 
gotten ! 

Of  like  nature  were  ye  with  our  own,  of  like  passions, 
glory  and  shame. 

Thus  through  ages  and  ages  of  Time  marched  the  long 
successions  unending, 

The  hunter,  the  fisher  waxed  skilful  through  sad  genera- 
tions of  men, 

ol 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Step  by  step  came  new  powers  and  new  arts,  and  o'er 
all  the  Creation  dominion, 

And  man  graved  on  the  mastodon's  tusk  the  first  faint 
beginnings  of  Art. 

Fire  came  from  the  Sun,  or  the  storm-cloud,  and  with 
it  the  forging  of  metals ; 

No  more  the  savage  tears  raw,  the  blood-stained  flesh 
of  his  prey, 

But  with  hatchet  of  bronze  levels  slowly  the  broad- 
leaved  trees  of  the  forest, 

And  builds  him  a  hut  to  escape  from  the  sun,  and  the 
snow  and  the  rain. 

Then  sews  him  a  garment  of  skins  to  ward  off  the 
rigour  of  winter, 

And  the  hearth  gives  comfort  and  light  through  the 
dark  and  desolate  hours ; 

The  husbandman  tills  the  earth  with  rude  shares  of 
newly  forged  iron, 

And  sows  with  each  coming  of  Spring  hoarded  trea- 
sures of  life-bearing  grain ; 

Silent  ages !  but  always  the  gains  of  the  long  Past  har- 
vested safely, 

Gathered  little  by  little,  at  length,  brought  the  triumph 
of  conquering  Man ! 


32 


THE   MARCH   OF  MAN 

And  last,  through  a  rift  in  the  clouds,  like  the  blessed 
Sun  seen  and  then  hidden, 

There  dawns  on  Man's  upturned  vision  some  broken 
image  of  God ; 

Obscured  by  vague  terrors  as  yet,  bloody  rites  and  foul 
superstitions, 

Yet  holding  within  it  the  power  to  raise  up  the  man 
from  the  brute. 

Then  after  long  aeons  of  pain,  step  by  step,  the  savage 
ascending, 

The  scattered  huts,  grew  to  the  village,  and  then  to  the 
wall-circled  town, 

Strong  towers  with  rampart  and  moat,  the  hut  giving 
place  to  the  palace. 

Halls  of  marble,  long  colonnades,  and  ceilings  fretted 
with  gold, 

The  pride  of  the  races  that  lived,  their  forgotten  his- 
tories vanished, 

The  gains  of  the  Empires  unsung,  whose  speech  and 
whose  records  are  dead, 

Ere  the  black-bearded  kings  from  their  chariots  pur- 
sued the  pitiful  thousands, 

Or  transfixed  the  lion  or  pard  with  shafts  from  the 
merciless  bow ; 

Or  who  by  the  mystical  Nile,  grave,  priest-like,  Lords  of 

the  Bondsmen, 

33 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Swayed  through  long-drawn  dynasties  dim  the  voice- 
less bewildering  years ; 

Those  whose  name  and  whose  fame  together  have  per- 
ished, older  than  legend, 

Whose  ruins,  the  sand  or  the  forest  conceals  in  its 
silence  profound. 

Perished !  gone,  clean  forgotten  of  men  but  surely  re- 
peating for  ever 

Man's  story  of  life  and  endeavour,  and  conquest,  and 
failure,  and  death. 


Age  upon  age  passed  away,  and  the  graven  records 

unfading 
Were  carved  no  more  on  the  rocks,  but  writ  on  the 

tablets  of  mind ; 
The  glory  of  Greece  shone  forth,  the  sage,  the  hero, 

the  poet, 
The  lips  of  Wisdom  were  touched  with  a  new-born 

sweetness  and  fire, 

The  painter,  the  sculptor  revered  the  perfect  half- 
divine  body, 
And  saw  through  the  veil  of  the  flesh,  the  immanent 

Godhead  displayed. 
The  Godlike  was  clothed  with  life  by  the  voice  of  the 

sage,  of  the  minstrel, 

34 


THE  MARCH  OF  MAN 

Half-divine  show  the  heroes  immortal  who  fought  in 
the  fabulous  Troy. 

Oh,  fair  blossom  of  Man's  young  summer,  oh,  glory 
and  radiance  departed, 

Oh  white  lily  springing  from  mire,  too  foul  for  the  sav- 
age to-day ! 

Then,  the  blossom  of  Beauty  past,  from  strong  roots 

far  reaching  ascended 
A  gnarled  tree  of  secular  strength,  the  o'ershadowing 

greatness  of  Rome ; 
Not  Beauty,  but  Law  with  Might,  Titanic,  disciplined, 

fearless, 
Wearing  down  the  pride  of  the  Strong,  but  sparing  the 

cast-down  and  weak. 
Beneath  that  strong  Law  universal,  man  faded,  and 

manacled  Freedom, 
Grew  faint,  and  withered  and  sank  'neath  the  blight  of 

a  cankering  peace, 
Till  law  fell,  trampled  down  in  the  dust  by  the  feet 

of  the  tyrannous  Caesars, 
And  only  a  phantom  remained  of  the  power,  and  the 

glory  of  old, 
And  in  deep  sloughs  of  sense  and  of  blood,  unredeemed 

by  the  Beauty  of  Hellas, 
35 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Sank  the  rugged  manhood  and  stern  of  the  legions  that 
conquered  the  world. 

And  not  even  the  new-born  Dawn,  proclaiming  its  heav- 
enly message 

Which  shone  forth  from  dying  Judasa  could  pierce 
through  the  gathering  gloom. 

The  West  paused  long  on  its  march,  the  xveary  Orient 
si  umbered , 

No  ears  had  Mankind  to  hear  the  Word  that  was  sent 
for  their  Peace. 

Then  there  rushed  from  the  ends  of  the  Earth,  horde 
on  horde,  invincible,  awful, 

On  the  shame  of  a  moribund  world,  the  unnumbered 
avengers  of  blood, 

And  the  heart  of  the  giant  was  pierced  and  the  shat- 
tered idol  fell  earthward, 

And  the  prisoners  of  Time  were  set  free,  and  Mankind 
delivered  from  Rome. 

Then  ages  on  ages  of  blood  that  cleansed  the  dark  stains 
of  Man's  story, 

And  again  the  weary  world  woke  in  the  light  of  a  long- 
deferred  day, 

And  the  hope  of  the  Race  sheltered  safe,  in  the  sacred 
hush  of  the  Cloister, 

36 


THE   MARCH   OF   i\IAN 

Keeping  some  faint  glimmer  alight  in  a  world  whereof 
Darkness  was  King. 

And  each  century  added  its  rays,  till  at  length  from 
slumber  awaking, 

The  mighty  West  leapt  to  its  feet,  and  again  was  Hu- 
manity free; 

A  new  breath  breathed  on  the  Race  and  the  swift  gen- 
erations sped  onward, 

Adding  each  some  laborious  gift  to  the  sum  of  the  gains 
of  the  whole. 


Still  the  long  processions  speed  onward,  and  still  each 

man  in  his  station, 
Brings  his  loyal  oblation  of  work  to  lay  on  the  altar  of 

Good, 

Busy  toilers  of  wider  view,  a  great  army  of  seekers  de- 
voted, 
O'er  all  the  wide  kingdom  of  knowledge  spread  tireless 

and  thirsting  to  know ; 
Weigh  the  Sun  and  the  Stars  in  the  scales,  scan  the 

uttermost  heaven  and  discover 
The  long-locked  wandering  star  whose  vast  orbit  brings 

it  again ; 
Can  predict  its  return  ages  hence  thougli  no  eye  now 

living  shall  see  it, 

37 


HARVEST-TIDE 

And  conjecture  on  faint  far  planets  the  work  of  intelli- 
gent hands ; 

Who  with  re-inforced  vision  explore  the  invisible  hid- 
den Creation, 
The  death-dealing  germs  of  Disease,  the  secrets  of  Life 

and  of  Death ; 
AVTio  imprison  and  guide  at  their  pleasure  the  nameless 

force  of  the  lightning, 
Till  it  conquers  the  darkness  of  Night,  or  whirls  them 

o'er  sea  and  o'er  land, 
Who  shall  make  them  a  way  through  the  air  leaving 

cloud  and  tempest  beneath  them, 
Till  the  ends  of  the  earth  are  linked  fast  in  a  holy 

communion  of  Peace ; 
Who  shall  learn  by  the  power  of  just  laws  to  raise  up 

the  down-trodden  thousands, 
Till  Nature's  unequal  gifts  are  redressed  by  the  wisdom 

of  men. 
Bring  new  fire,  oh  Promethean  Science !  rise  higher, 

oh  glorified  Manhood ! 
Till  thou  gain  to  full  knowledge  at  last  of  the  infinite 

purpose  of  God. 
But  can  this  be  the  cave-man  of  old,  the  naked  savage 

primaeval, 
Hiding  deep  in  the  depths  of  the  rocks  from  the  winged 

Lizard's  pitiless  jaw? 


THE   MARCH   OF   MAN 

"Wondrous  gain !  but  broken  too  oft  by  reversals  and 
degenerations, 

Not  always  the  secular  march  lay  onward  and  upward 
to  Light, 

The  old  Empires  faded  and  sank  leaving  naught  but 
some  ruins  Cyclopic 

Buried  deep  in  the  sands,  or  o'ergrown  in  the  twilight 
of  tropical  woods. 

The  Temples,  the  altars  are  gone,  the  tall  carven  col- 
umns lie  prostrate, 

Gods  and  men  lie  buried  together;  dumb  histories, 
glory,  and  shame, 

All  are  gone,  and  the  peasant  who  delves  'mid  the 
shapeless  mounds  starts  to  discover 

Deep  hidden,  the  gold  and  the  gems  of  the  ghosts  of  a 
sepulchred  Past. 

Still  over  the  populous  East,  crude  beliefs,  thin  phi- 
losophies, changeless 

From  the  first  beginnings  of  Time,  clog  millions  of 
wandering  feet, 

And  the  naked  savage  obscene,  fetish-ridden,  unrea- 
soning, brute-like 

Gibbers  still  with  faint  jargons  of  speech  through  the 
limitless  wastes  of  the  South. 

Shall  we  hold  with  more  credulous  souls  the  faith  in  a 
purpose  Eternal, 

Oi) 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Marching  on  without  haste  or  delay  to  the  final  tri- 
umph of  Good? 


Yea,   the  great  Scheme  fulfils  itself  always,  though 
slowly  with  long  intermissions, 

Wave  on  wave  of  the  inflowing  tide  seems  at  times  to 
ebb  back  to  the  sea ; 

Where  to-day  are  the  wonders  of  Painting,  the  breath- 
ing Marbles  immortal, 

The   floreate  capitals   carveu,    the  vaulted,   vaporous 
aisles? 

The  skill  of  the  craftsmen  who  reared  the  huge  bulk 
of  structures  colossal, 

The  lost  Arts,  and  triumphs  of  Knowledge,  the  hidden 
Arcana  of  Faith? 

A  great  silence  swallows  them  all,  they  have  perished, 
and  no  man  remembers, 

And  the  gains  of  the  Past  are  re-won  after  ages  of  tra- 
vail and  tears. 

Man  that  cowered  long  time  in  the  caves,  scant  in 
numbers,  feeble,  forgotten, 

Is  the  crown  and  summit  ot  things,  and  has  filled  and 
governs  the  world, 

But  not  yet  can  he  govern  his  soul ;  gross  desires,  mean 
ideals,  enslave  him ; 

40 


THE   MARCH   OF   MAN 

Not  wherefore  he  came  nor  whence,  not  whither  he 

goeth  he  knows. 
Life's  swift  fleeting  seasons  perplex  him,  youth  passes, 

dull  age  creeps  upon  him. 
Few  are  blest,  while  the  multitudes  labour  through 

brief  lives  and  fortunes  forlorn, 
To  the  grave  from  the  cradle  they  bear,  the  unsatisfied 

dim  generations. 
Toil  and  suffering,  hunger  and  cold,  scant  pleasure 

and  undeserved  pain, 
The  shadow  of  fratricide  war,  broods  deep  o'er   the 

shuddering  peoples, 
And  the  round  world  rolls  on  through  cycles  of  sorrow, 

and  bloodshed,  and  pain. 

Nay    oh   man,   though   vainly   it  seem,   still   aspire, 

struggle  onward  and  upward ! 
In  the  Future  live,  not  the  Past,  trample  down  the 

inherited  brute! 
Rise  from  sensual  deeps,  rise  upward.  He  who  made 

thee  knows  to  what  purpose, 
Spurn  aside,  one  by  one,  with  the  years,  the  sordid 

rags  of  the  Past. 
Give  ear  to  the  clear  voice  calling  with  mystical  accents 

unceasing, 

41 


HARVEST-TIDE 

That  bids  thee  aspire  and  ascend  in  the  faith  of  an  ul- 
timate Good. 

Not  for  thee  are  the  problems  perplext  of  the  methods 
and  ends  of  the  Maker, 

Turn  with  steadfast  unwavering  gaze  to  the  Light  of 
the  half-discerned  Sun ; 

Tread  down  in  the  mire  of  dead  years  the  reproach  of 
the  travailing  ages, 

Raise  the  wandering  savage  alike,  and  the  waifs  of  the 
sin-laden  streets ; 

The  ruffian,  the  wanton,  the  thief,  the  bondsmen  of 
Pleasure  or  Mammon, 

Wasting  weariful  lives  in  the  chase  of  ignoble  profit- 
less ends. 

Last  of  all  make  the  Demon  of  War  put  off  his  false 
halo  of  Glory, 

And  a  league  of  Brethren  conspire  for  the  final  triumph 
of  Peace, 

Till  the  calm  voice  of  Justice  shall  drown  the  cries  of 
tumultuous  Passion, 

And  the  criminal  shrink  from  himself  at  the  clear  call 
of  Godhead  within ; 

Then,  O  Man  that  art  born  of  a  Woman,  the  crown, 
not  the  shame  of  Creation, 

Be  thou  filled  with  the  glory  of  God,  as  the  waters  cover 

the  Deep ! 

42 


THE   FREEING  OF  CRETE 

AT  length,  at  last,  at  last, 

The  weary  suffering  years  are  past 

Baffled  the  tigerish  Turk  slinks  from  his  bleeding  prey. 

At  last,  O  hapless  Isle  at  last, 

Thy  mother  draws  thee  closer  to  her  breast, 

Thee,  who  long  ages  this  auspicious  day 

Awaitedst,  but  in  vain, 

Done  is  at  length,  thy  age-long  pain, 

And  thou  at  last  at  rest. 

Strange  are  the  ironies  of  Time  and  Fate, 
And  dark  the  pathway  of  the  Eternal  feet, 
For  lo,  it  was  but  yesterday  that  we, 
We  whose  hearts  yearned  to  set  the  captive  free, 
Knowing  the  story  of  thy  misery 
Waited  the  Hellenic  victories  in  vain. 
Ah  me !  it  was  a  time  of  pain 
For  us,  who  from  our  earliest  boyish  years, 
With  thee  were  nourished  at  one  mother's  breast!  — 
Her  brave  sons,  fearless  dashed  their  lives  in  vain. 
Against  the  foemen's  strong  o'ermastering  line, 
By  alien  hirelings  drilled  for  victory. 
Oh  wasted  harvest  fields  of  Thessaly, 
43 


HARVEST-TIDE 

On  which  divine  Olympus  looking,  saw 

The  brute  invader  trampling  Right  and  Law, 

And  weak  defenders  dying  but  in  vain ! 

Ah  me !  it  was  a  time  of  tears, 

Blank  disappointment  sinking  to  despair, 

Almost  our  sad  eyes  seemed  to  see 

The  loathly  Ottoman  once  more  again 

Befoul  the  city  of  the  violet-crown ; 

Loud  shrieks  of  outrage  on  the  affrighted  air, 

Column  again  and  temple  crashing  down, 

Barbarian  vengeance  wreaked  on  all  things  fair. 

Ah  me !  it  was  a  time  of  pain  and  tears. 

But  now,  but  now,  though  scarce  a  year  has  gone, 
To  her  high  goal  our  Hellas  marches  on, 
The  jealous  Powers  their  mutual  hates  forget, 
And  suddenly  from  failure,  from  defeat, 
She  springs  unconquered  yet. 
From  clouds  and  darkness  beams  her  rising  sun, 
A  miracle,  a  miracle  is  done ! 
In  full  accord  the  o'ermastering  navies  ride, 
To  work  the  will  of  Europe  side  by  side, 
And  Peace  accomplishes  what  War  denied  — 
The  net  is  broken  and  the  captive  free ! 
The  sufferings  of  the  dead  unhappy  Past, 
The  wrongs,  the  tyrannies  are  fled  at  last. 
44 


THE  FREEING  OF  CRETE 

"Begone!"  the  banded  Admirals  cried,  "Begone!" 
And  without  stroke  of  sword  or  flash  of  gun 
The  Oppressor  slunk  away,  his  rule  of  Evil  done. 

Therefore  we  sing  to-day 
"Te  Deum"  for  the  victory  of  Peace; 
O  Power  of  Good  at  last  make  Wrong  to  cease ! 
We,  whose  brave  sons  have  died,  and  not  in  vain, 
In  treacherous  massacre,  with  torture  slain, 
To  free  our  Hellas ;  we, 

Whose  England  is  the  mother  of  all  the  Free, 
We  praise  thee,  and  we  pray, 
Deliver  soon  the  shining  Company 
That  stud  the  purple  of  the  ^Egean  sea; 
The  land  of  Philip's  conquering  son ; 
The  rock-built  islet  of  the  blind  old  man 
King  of  all  Singers  still ;  fair  regions  long, 
Shrined  in  our  English  Poet's  generous  song, 
Where  long  unchecked  the  spoiler  loved  to  slay, 
And  rob  and  ravish,  as  he  would  to-day. 
Bind  in  close  union  all  who  love  to  speak 
The  sacred  accents  of  the  Greek, 
Till  at  the  last  the  victory  won, 
Hellas  regains  her  children  one  by  one ! 
Deliver  all,  dread  Power,  and  set  them  free 
From  the  foul  Turk's  decrepit  tyranny. 
45 


HARVEST-TIDE 

And  ye,  O  new-born  freemen  brave, 

Put  off  the  ignoble  vices  of  the  slave, 

Forget  the  faults  which  long  oppression  breeds, 

The  feuds,  the  jealousies  of  warring  creeds. 

Be  love  your  guide,  not  hate, 

Not  for  yourselves  take  heed  but  for  the  State, 

Forget  the  Past,  till  a  pervading  Peace 

Shall  bind  you  fast  to  Greece. 

Then  ye,  oh,  triple  peaks  of  virgin  snow, 

Which  on  the  warring  strifes  and  woes  below, 

Looked  down  unmoved  through  the  sad  centuries 

Ere  Homer  sang,  no  more  again  shall  see 

The  secular  misery ; 

The  hamlet  flaring  from  the  smoke's  black  shroud, 

The  huddled  flocks,  and  herds,  the  affrighted  crowd ; 

But  smile  upon  the  untroubled,  peaceful  plain, 

Where  labour  reaps  its  due ;  the  untrampled  grain, 

The  unrifled  olive,  and  the  laden  vine; 

On  corn  and  oil  and  wine, 

And  on  the  rippling  breadths  of  purple  sea, 

Lit  by  white  wings  of  many  an  argosy, 

In  the  great  Peace  and  Concord  that  shall  be. 


46 


CHRISTMAS,  1898 

ANOTHER  Century  dies, 
In  war  and  blood  and  pain, 
Our  longing  streaming  eyes 
Look  forth  for  Peace  in  vain, 
For  Christ  the  myriads  fall 
Butchered  by  Turk  or  Kurd 
Comes  there  no  end?  Is  all 
The  hope  of  men  in  vain? 
Comes  not  the  Lord  again 
O'er  all  the  Earth  to  reign, 
As  spake  the  Word  ? 

Slow  are  God's  judgments,  slow, 
To  Man's  impatient  thought, 
Slow-paced  the  Ages  grow, 
In  vain  the  goal  is  sought 
Armed  to  the  teeth  to-day 
The  jealous  peoples  stand, 
Worse  blight  than  of  decay, 
Worse  burden  than  of  war 
The  fleets  and  legions  are ; 
Dumb  terror  spreading  far 
O'er  sea  and  land ! 
47 


HARVEST-TIDE 

'T  is  nigh  two  thousand  years, 
Since  came  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
Return  Thou,  calm  our  fears, 
Make  strife  and  war  to  cease; 
Thick  clouds  to-day  of  doubt, 
Obscure  our  faithful  sight. 
Shine,  Blessed  Sun,  shine  out, 
The  storms  of  Passion  still, 
Again,  oh  hidden  will, 
The  wintry  Earth  fulfil 
With  Peace  and  Light ! 


CHRISTMAS,  1899 
" Morituri  te  salutant!" 

THE  din  of  the  battlefield  dies, 
The  shouts  of  the  foemen  are  still, 
No  more  from  the  deep-trenched  hill 
The  murderous  battle-bolt  flies. 
Here,  alone  'mid  the  silent  slain, 
Alone  with  no  comforter  nigh, 
Too  feeble  for  fear  or  for  pain, 
'Neath  strange  stars  in  the  pitiless  sky, 
I  make  ready  to  die. 

Here  soon  with  the  dawn's  dim  light, 

Or  maybe  in  the  lantern-lit  dark, 

They  will  find  me  stretched  cold  and  stark, 

A  soldier  who  died  in  the  night. 

Is  it  I  who  lie  helpless  here,  I, 

Who  this  morning  went  pulsing  with  life 

To  drink  the  delight  of  the  strife? 

I,  whose  life  ebbs  away  as  I  lie, 

Making  ready  to  die? 

'T  is  Christmas-tide  over  the  Earth, 
And  thro'  all  our  dear  England  to-night, 
49 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Hearths  glow  ruddy  and  hearts  young  and  old  are  light 

For  joy  of  that  marvellous  birth. 

Ah !  if  only  some  vision  might  come 

Of  the  dear  ones  my  eyes  cannot  see ! 

If  some  token  of  love  might  be  wafted  to  me 

From  the  silent  lips  in  the  well-loved  home, 

Ere  my  time  comes  to  die ! 

Heaven !  What  is  this  comforting  hand 

Which  touches  my  fast-closing  eyes, 

This  Presence  which  opens  a  door  in  the  skies, 

WTiere  all  my  beloved  stand? 

See,  see  't  is  my  mother's  kind  face ! 

Smiling  grave  'neath  her  silvery  hair, 

And  my  dearest  love  bending  beside  her  chair ! 

And  my  children's  careless  innocent  grace, 

All  are  here,  as  I  lie. 

They  are  joyous,  dear  children,  at  play, 
With  the  spoils  of  the  old  Christmas  tree, 
Heaven  keep  them  from  hurt  and  calamity  free, 
Till  their  sunny  locks  are  grey. 
My  brave  boy  has  his  sword  and  his  gun, 
Like  the  soldier  he  wearies  to  be, 
Can  I  wish  for  him  more  when  his  life  is  done 
50 


CHRISTMAS,  1899 

Than  to  fall  for  our  England,  if  need  shall  be, 
And  die  happy  like  me? 

Thank  Heaven  for  the  vision !  My  heart 

Beats  high  for  a  moment  still, 

As  when  we  charged  swift  up  this  death-dealing  hill, 

Each  man  striving  to  do  his  part. 

I  am  troubled  no  longer,  but  lie 

Happy,  thinking  of  hearth  and  of  home, 

I  rejoice  that  my  dear  ones  were  given  to  come, 

I  grow  faint,  't  is  the  end,  I  am  ready  to  die, 

O  beloved,  O  England,  good-bye ! 


51 


ON  AN  EMPTY  HOUSE 

A  STATELY  house  I  passed  to-day, 
Familiar  when  the  world  was  gay. 
How  the  years  fleeting  take  our  lives ! 
Nought  of  that  joyous  Past  survives. 
Blind  casements,  railings  red  with  rust, 
Dumb  doorways  choked  with  leaves  and  dust, 
And  see  the  staring  placard  cold — 
"This  noble  mansion  to  be  sold." 

Nigh  thirty  years  have  passed  away 
Since  each  year  passing  bloomed  in  May ; 
Nigh  thirty  years,  since  side  by  side, 
The  youthful  bridegroom  and  his  bride 
Passed  careless  through  that  lofty  door, 
Where  now  their  feet  shall  come  no  more. 

All  splendours  that  to  wealth  belong 
Were  theirs  of  feast  and  dance  and  song, 
The  gliding  lamps  that  choked  the  street, 
The  thunder  of  high-stepping  feet; 
The  lights,  the  liveried  crowd  without, 
The  wafted  strains,  the  linkmen's  shout ; 
52 


ON  AN   EMPTY   HOUSE 

The  jewelled  throng  that  scaled  the  stair ; 
The  star-decked  Great,  the  white-robed  Fair ; 

And  when  the  whirling  town  grew  still, 
Grey  on  the  sunny  oak-crowned  hill, 
The  gabled  grange,  amid  the  fern ; 
Last,  ere  the  sere  leaves  ceased  to  burn 
The  swallow-flights  to  chase  the  sun ; 
Spring  blossoms,  bright  ere  Yule  was  done, 
And  by  the  purple  waters  calm, 
The  palace  gleaming  thro'  the  palm. 

Nigh  thirty  happy  tranquil  years, 
Child-voices,  homely  hopes  and  fears; 
Young  girls,  springing  sweet  and  good 
From  infancy  to  maidenhood. 
Soon  joyous  bridals,  year  by  year 
Unbroken  welfare,  scarce  a  tear, 
Only  the  bright  home  stiller  grown 
When  half  the  nestling  brood  had  flown. 

Last,  ere  chill  age  o'ertook  them,  then, 
Such  is  the  lot  of  mortal  men, 
The  pitiless  call  too  early  come, 
To  break  the  tranquil  hush  of  home, 
The  fair  wife  summoned  first,  then  he, 
53 


HARVEST-TIDE 

The  sad  sire  fading  gradually. 
And  so  the  end ;  the  nest  grown  cold, 
The  orphaned  lives  I  know  not  where ; 
Blind  casements,  dust,  and  everywhere, 
Dim  on  the  dense  autumnal  air, 
Time's  epitaph  on  Rank  and  Gold — 
"This  noble  mansion  to  be  sold." 


54 


LIFE-MUSIC 

SOUND,  jocund  strains ;  on  pipe  and  viol  sound, 

Young  voices  sing ; 
Wreathe  every  door  with  snow-white  garlands  round, 

For  lo!  'tis  Spring! 

Winter  has  passed  with  its  sad  funeral  train, 
And  hope  revives  again. 

Blow  high,  blow  loud  upon  the  wreathed  horn, 

Sound  joy-bells  deep ! 
Greeu-kirtled  summer  walks  through  vines  and  corn, 

The  fenced  fields  sleep ; 

The  first  flowers  fade,  the  green  fruits  swell,  and  yet 
Fruition  brings  regret. 

Lift  joyous  harvest-music  mellow  notes 

With  merry  tunes ! 
Raise  thankful  paeans  loud  from  manly  throats, 

Trumpets,  bassoons! 

Autumn  has  left  red  fruits  and  garnered  gold, 
With  dawns  and  twilights  cold. 

Yet  cease  not  from  the  use  of  solemn  song, 
When  the  streams  freeze ; 
55 


HARVEST-TIDE 

For  dark  brief  days  and  rayless  nights  and  long, 

For  leafless  trees ! 

Each  season  should  its  proper  music  bring, 
Sweet  as  the  songs  of  Spring. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  TWO  FRIENDS 
i 

GWALCHMAI 

AGAIN  the  oft-renewed  request, 
With  time  more  frequent,  to  rehearse 
In  some  brief  page  of  halting  verse 
The  praise  of  Cymry  gone  to  rest. 

Thou  good  grey  head,  whose  long  life  spread 
O'er  all  this  fateful  century, 
Now  thou  hast  joined  the  faithful  dead, 
I  bring  a  wreath  of  praise  for  thee. 

In  many  a  thronged  pavilion  fair 
Thy  thin  bent  form,  these  eyes  have  seen, 
Thy  medalled  breast,  thy  silvery  hair, 
Thy  clear,  calm  gaze,  thy  brow  serene. 

Oft  have  I  marked  thy  accents  weak 
Amid  the  hushed,  attentive  throng, 
In  volleying  swift  Englyriion  speak 
What  time  they  chaired  the  Bard  of  Song. 

Thyself  an  oft-crowned  Bard,  whose  Muse 
To  th'  old  alliterate  measures  sweet 
57 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Her  voice  inspired,  did  ne'er  refuse, 
But  lightlier  tripped  for  fettered  feet. 

Nor  thus  alone,  but  long  time  stirred 
The  passionate,  yearning  Cymric  heart 
To  choose  the  higher,  better  part 
By  preaching  of  the  Eternal  Word. 

So  may  it  be  till  time  is  done ! 
Two  Powers  for  Good  of  differing  name; 
There  are,  in  noble  aim  the  same  — 
God's  Preacher  and  His  Bard  are  one. 

Dear  silent  Bard,  of  kindred  blood, 
With  mine,  from  Mona's  wind-swept  shore, 
I  praise  thy  song,  thy  work  for  good, 
'T  is  only  here  thou  sing'st  no  more. 

ii 
T.  LL.  T. 

GOOD  Friend,  whose  heart,  whose  Muse  refined, 
Were  to  our  Isis  faithful  yet, 
I  praise  thee  with  a  willing  mind 
Ere  the  world  hastens  to  forget. 

Thou  as  befits  our  tuneful  race 
Wert  touched  in  youth  with  Bardic  fire, 
58 


IN  MEMORY  OF  TWO  FRIENDS 

The  Cymric  melody  and  grace 
Thy  young  ambition  did  inspire. 

Long  since  in  thy  successful  song 
The  Toiler's  praise  thou  didst  rehearse, 
Winning  by  sympathetic  verse 
The  plaudits  of  the  lettered  throng. 

Fair  gift  by  work's  unchanging  round 
Thro'  all  thy  later  years  represt ; 
Thou  hidd'st,  by  lifelong  fetters  bound, 
The  fire  scarce  kindled  in  thy  breast. 

And  better  thus  maybe  to  bear 
Duty's  dull  burden  to  the  end, 
The  Teacher's  crown  of  work  to  wear 
That  in  each  Learner  gains  a  friend. 

Beside  life's  duteous  liturgies 
What  profits  rank  or  wealth  or  name  ? 
A  brighter  lustre  shines  on  these 
Than  on  the  pinnacles  of  Fame. 

Far  better  to  have  won  the  love 
By  faithful  work,  of  old  and  young,    V 
Than  the  admiring  throng  to  move 
By  song  as  sweet  as  Bard  has  sung. 
59 


HARVEST-TIDE 

So  I  who  knew  thee  well  and  long, 
I  whose  sole  gift  it  is  to  sing, 
To  these  memorial  pages  bring 
This  votive  wreath  of  musing  song. 


ON  A  SCULPTOR  WHO  DIED  YOUNG 
J.  MILO  GRIFFITH 

(  OBIIT.  SEPTEMBER  1897  ) 

ART  smiled  on  him,  but  one  unchanging  frown 
For  all  his  days  would  churlish  Fortune  keep ; 
Too  soon  we  deemed  he  laid  life's  burden  down. 
Nay !  for  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep ! 


/ 


VER  NON  SEMPER  VIRET 

OH  the  blithe  spring  weaves  a  maze  of  flowers  till  come 
the  glad  Midsummer  hours 

When  the  sun  is  shining,  shining,  Dawn  and  Sunset  in 
the  skies ; 

Yet  tho'  song  and  youth  are  everywhere,  upon  the  joy- 
ous lightsome  air, 

A  cold  voice  sighs. 

"  There  shall  come  a  fated  end  of  all,  ere  Autumn's 

leaves  have  ceased  to  fall, 
And  thro'  all  the  sleeping  woods  there  sounds  no  trill 

of  waking  bird, 
And  a  great  hush  steals  away  the  joys  of  youth  and  all 

its  merry  noise, 
And  song-tide  dies." 

Silent  yet  tolling,  tolling  deep,  like  wizard  voices  heard 

in  sleep, 
The  strange  sound  eddies  ceaseless,  like  a  whirlpool 

round  the  soul, 
There  is  silence  all-pervading ;  voiceless  echoes  sinking, 

fading 
While  the  still  deeps  roll. 

62 


VER  NON  SEMPER  VIRET 

And  anon  a  ghostly  pealing,  on  the  poppied  senses 

stealing, 
Life's  high,  soaring  accents  hushing,  to  an  undertone 

of  pain ; 
Soar,  oh  Love-strains  high  and  higher,  like  a  fountain, 

like  a  fire, 
Youth  is  not  in  vain. 

Drown  the  dismal,  deathlike  measure,  in  loud  canticles 

of  pleasure, 
Joy  of  youth,  and  joy  of  living,  let  your  blithest  songs 

be  sung, 
For  though  Age  with  Death  conspire,  to-day  the  sun 

mounts  high  and  higher, 
And  the  world  is  young. 


63 


ON  A  MEMORIAL  ORGAN 

His  life  made  music  sweeter  far  than  sound, 
Here  would  we  keep  some  echoes  that  were  his, 
Who,  with  the  choir  invisible  around, 
Now  hearkens  to  the  Eternal  Harmonies. 


64 


THE  DIAMOND  JUBILEE 

AN  ODE 
(  JUNE  20,  1897  ) 

REJOICE,  give  thanks  for  all  the  centuries, 

Since  first  our  little  island's  crescent  story, 

A  feeble  radiance  woke  the  waning  skies, 

To  shine  in  full-orbed  glory. 

Twelve  centuries  ago  our  Britain  rose, 

Girt  round  by  watchful  foes, 

And  did  prevail  at  last — such  power  in  valour  lies, 

Such  force  the  brain,  the  arm  of  Freedom  fires, 

Such  lofty  thought  her  soul  inspires, 

Hers  were  the  faults  the  virtues  of  the  strong, 

The  passionate  love  of  Right,  the  burning  hate  of  Wrong, 

Warped  sometimes  by  her  too  imperious  will, 

To  thoughts,  to  deeds  of  ill, 

But  hearing  still  through  all  the  voice  of  Fate, 

Proclaim,  "Thou  shalt  be  great!" 

Mixed  is  the  journey  of  a  nation's  life, 
Through  frowning  mountain-pass  and  flowery  plain, 
Through  peaceful  halcyon  days,  rude  storms  of  cruel 
strife, 

65 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Brief  pleasure,  longer  pain. 

But  not  in  vain  has  our  dear  Britain  been. 

Oh  gracious  Island  Queen, 

Mother  of  freemen !  over  all  the  earth, 

Thy  Empire-children  come  to  birth, 

Vast  continents  are  thine  or  sprung  from  thee, 

Brave  island-fortress  of  the  storm-vext  sea ! 

The  giant  commonwealths  which  sway  the  West, 

Were  nourished  at  thy  breast ; 

The  fair-grown  sisters  of  the  Austral  main 

That  hold  the  South  in  fee, 

Are  thine,  and  love  thy  laws  and  speak  thy  tongue ; 

The  dusky  millions  of  thy  fabulous  East, 

Dim  Empires  older  than  the  dawn  of  Time — 

Thy  crescent  realm  on  Afric's  peopled  shore, 

The  white  man's  grave  no  more; 

Ruled  by  just  laws,  and  learning  to  grow  free, 

Rejoice  by  thy  Britannic  Peace  increased. 

Thy  praise  is  by  a  myriad  voices  sung ; 

Thou  treadst  alone  thy  onward  path  sublime : 

Thou  hast  not  been  in  vain ! 

Great  Empire,  those  who  come  to-day  from  far, 
Seeking  some  symbol  of  our  common  love, 
Know  through  their  souls,  Imperial  pulses  move, 
Following  as  did  the  Magi  once,  the  Star 
66 


Of  this  new  birth  of  Time,  this  happy  reign ! 
Ne'er  in  our  Crowned  Republic's  story  yet, 
Of  all  that  men  remember  or  forget, 
This  strange,  this  precious  thing  has  been : 
No  reign  of  threescore  years  of  King  or  Queen. 
Our  annals  hold — till  in  this  waning  age, 
Time's  finger  writes  it  on  the  storied  page. 
This  is  the  golden  link  which  binds  in  one 
All  British  hearts  beneath  the  circling  Sun, 
And  this  the  Star  which  draws  all,  far  and  near, 
This  aged  life  and  dear ! 

Ah,  honoured  thin-drawn  life !  who  long  hast  borne, 
From  that  far  June,  when  with  the  earliest  morn 
The  young  maid  woke  with  tears, 
And  innocent  childish  fears, 
The  heavy  burden  of  the  Imperial  Crown, 
Thy  young,  thy  aged  temples  pressing  down ; 
Who  threescore  years  throned  in  the  nation's  heart, 
Of  all  its  joys  and  sorrows,  barest  part, 
Sharing  thy  people's  humbler  hopes  and  fears, 
And  oft  directing  through  a  mist  of  tears 
Our  difficult  way, — so  fragile  yet  so  strong! 
Thou  seemest  to  our  eyes 
Our  own  embodied  Britain,  old  yet  young ; 
Not  the  rude  Britain  of  her  arrogant  youth, 
07 


HARVEST-TIDE 

But  loving  peace,  and  filled  with  gentle  ruth, 
The  Britain,  her  undying  bards  have  sung. 
Our  lives  are  bound  with  thine,  our  hopes  with  thee, 
Thy  subjects  all,  and  loyal  lovers,  we 
Come  from  the  North,  the  South,  the  East,  the  West ; 
From  the  acclaiming  lands  beyond  the  foam, 
Seeking  their  ancient  unforgotten  home, 
Differing  in  race  and  tongue,  and  creed  and  name — 
Senators,  soldiers,  rulers  great  in  fame, 
Thy  proud  Proconsuls  come ; 
Down  lanes  of  life  the  slow  processions  stream, 
Barbaric  gold  and  sunlit  pennons  gleam, 
While  all  the  glittering  palace-balconies, 
Are  animate  with  bright  patrician  eyes — 
And  from  our  mighty  mother,  and  the  hum 
Of  labour-teeming  towns,  from  mine  and  loom, 
And  the  blurred  forge's  mingled  glow  and  gloom, 
Throngs  the  unnumbered  league-long  crowd, 
Waiting  with  yearning  hearts  and  plaudits  loud, 
To  see  along  the  fluttering  flower-hung  street, 
With  trumpet-blare  and  measured  martial  feet, 
Down  clear  perspectives  of  the  sunlit  ways 
The  jewelled  pageant  pass  to  prayer  and  praise, 
For  blessings  that  have  been,  and  peace,  and  length  of 
days. 

68 


THE  DIAMOND  JUBILEE 

This  pomp  makes  History.  Long  years  to  be, 

When  all  our  brave  Victorian  company 

Beyond  the  circuits  of  the  stars  has  gone, 

The  echoes  of  this  memorable  day, 

Not  wholly  dumb,  nor  fled  away, 

Shall  still  go  widening,  widening  on, 

Till  Britain  with  new  fires  of  Union  glow. 

Not  as  the  Roman,  triumphing  of  yore — 

The  slave,  the  doomed,  behind,  the  conqueror,  before — 

Our  peaceful  pageants  show ; 

Whereto  each  daughter-state  or  subject-race, 

Brings  its  own  native  pride  and  grace. 

For  Union  't  is  our  severed  people's  cry, 

For  Peace  each  neighbour-realm,  each  proud  ally ! 

Princes  and  Peoples  join  alike  to  pay, 

Due  reverence  to  a  Woman's  blameless  sway, 

And  bless  with  heart  and  voice  this  fair  auspicious  day. 


RENEWAL 

DRAW  near,  draw  near, 

Oh  blithe  and  glad  New  Year, 

Haste,  haste  our  weary  souls  to  cheer, 

Draw  swiftly  near. 

Bidding  farewell  to  pain  and  fear, 

And  sullen  Winter's  frown,  and  ready  tear, 

Bright  hopes  and  far  horizons  clear. 

Draw  near,  draw  near, 

Let  ageworn  Wisdom  hide  her  wrinkled  front  severe. 

Wake  wake  again 
Beneath  the  genial  rain, 
Pathetic  vernal  fancies  vain, 
Come  Spring  again. 
Weave  the  old  flowery  chain 
Round  Youth's  strong  pulse  and  throbbing  brain, 
While  Love  and  Hope  remain, 
And  Life  is  mixt  of  Joy  and  pain. 
Blossom  again ! 

Trip  by  swift,  nimble  Hours,  with  Summer  in  your 
train ! 


70 


TERRA   DOMUS 

ABOVE  the  deep-set  valley 
The  mountain-ranges  rise ; 
Above  the  clouded  summits, 
The  boundless  skies. 

Beyond  the  crested  surges, 
Broad  plains  of  ocean  are, 
Beyond  the  dim  horizons 
The  evening  star. 

Beyond,  above  the  limits 
Of  toil  and  pain  and  strife, 
Gleams  like  a  fitful  beacon, 
The  blessed  life. 

Beyond  Earth's  quick  mutations, 
Bright  hopes  and  glooms  of  fear— - 
Ah !  but  high  heaven  affrights  us, 
Our  home  is  here ! 


71 


A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE 
(A.D.  1900) 

"THINK  you  that  after  nineteen  centuries 

Since  shone  our  Hope  on  earth,  there  come  to-day 

No  tragedies,  no  dread  abysmal  deeps 

Of  sin,  like  those  of  old,  the  accursed  house 

Of  Atreus,  or  the  fratricides  of  Thebes, 

Or  those  the  shame  of  mediaeval  Rome, 

The  Borgias,  or  the  Cenci,  or  the  rest? 

Nay,  nay,  the  same  infernal  forces  still 

Assault  men's  shuddering  souls ;  amid  the  glare 

Of  all  our  vaunted  gains  dark  growths  obscene 

Tower  high  as  then — hot  passion  quenched  in  blood - 

Lust,  incest,  fratricide, — these  vex  us  still, 

As  erst  in  Thebes  or  Rome,  no  fabled  tales 

Are  ours,  but,  dreadful  fact,  murders  as  fierce 

And  deadly  as  of  old ;  the  Church  may  preach 

Her  sacred  message ;  the  philosopher, 

All  brain,  but  little  heart,  may  boast  in  vain 

Mind's  victories ;  for  still  Tartarean  fires 

Rage  close  beneath  the  surface  scarce  concealed, 

And  whoso  stumbles,  burns.  Deliver  us 

O  Power  of  Good,  for  'tis  a  hopeless  world  !" 

72 


A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE 

These  dark  thoughts  held  me,  as  I  mused  perplext, 

This  very  spring,  reading  the  dreadful  tale, 

The  morning's  broadsheet*  brought,  and  seemed  to 

gaze, 

On  the  blue  waters  of  the  Euxine  sea, 
By  bright  Odessa,  while  a  fettered  crew 
Of  convicts  whom  the  inexorable  Law 
Banished  to  far  Saghalien  shambled  by 
Dragging  their  chains ;  vile  faces,  seared  and  marred, 
Doomed  for  long  painful  years  to  fruitless  toil 
Deep  in  the  sunless  mine,  till  youth  and  hope 
Lay  dead,  and  only  some  poor  wreck  remained 
Of  what  long  since  was  man — all,  young  and  old, 
Chained  each  to  each,  in  convict  garb,  all  sign 
Of  rank  and  gentle  breeding  sunk  and  lost 
In  fellowship  of  crime.  The  wretches  filed 
To  where  the  black  side  of  the  impatient  ship 
Swallowed  them  one  by  one.  But  as  they  passed 
In  pitiful  procession  to  their  fate 
One  my  eye  noted,  tall,  who  walked  alone 
In  bloom  of  manhood,  proud  with  steadfast  eyes, 
Whom  not  the  shameful  garb,  nor  clanking  chain, 
Nor  manacled  hands,  nor  vile  companionship 
Could  quite  disguise  or  mar.  Seeing  him  pass 

*  See  the  Daily  News,  February  15,  1900. 
73 


HARVEST-TIDE 

I  seemed  to  ask  the  warder  of  his  name, 
But  that  he  knew  not,  nor  his  rank,  but  only 
That  he  was  called  "Prince  Ivan."  Then  I  seemed 
To  question  the  lost  wretch,  and  hear  him  tell 
In  gentle  tones  this  dreadful  tale  of  wrong. 

"What,  would  you  know  what  brings  me  here?  Good 

friend, 

For  in  your  eyes  I  see  a  pitying  gleam, 
'T  were  better  not  to  hear  it,  for,  God  wot, 
Sometimes  I  wonder  if 't  was  I  indeed 
Who  sinned,  or  if  some  dread  necessity 
Worked  through  me,  as  the  sculptor's  hand  which 

moulds 

White  marble,  or  the  painter's  who  draws  forth 
Dark  fancies  from  the  canvas,  till  behold ! 
A  fiend,  not  man.  I  do  not  seek  to  hide 
My  wickedness,  but  sometimes  am  perplexed 
To  know  by  what  gradations  swift  or  slow 
What  I  was  once  was  changed  to  what  I  am. 
I  well  remember  how  I  read  in  youth 
The  tales  of  ancient  crime,  nor  ever  dreamt 
That  e'er  they  might  be  mine ;  but  now  I  go 
To  pay  its  penalty,  a  felon,  lost, 
Degraded  from  my  rank,  doomed  for  long  years 
To  slave  without  reward  or  hope ;  to  miss 
74 


A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE 

All  things  that  make  life  sweet — though  nought  indeed 
Could  sweeten  mine — yet  to  live  hopeless  on 
Without  the  power  to  end  it. 

I  was  born 

Amid  the  Georgian  snows,  of  an  old  race, 
And  puissant,  ere  the  wily  Russian  stole 
Our  land  and  freedom  from  us ;  a  chaste  youth 
I  spent  among  our  mountains.  My  good  sire 
Died  first,  and  then  my  mother.  My  dear  brother, 
Filling  my  father's  place  and  rank,  remained 
Unwedded,  keeping  sole  the  ancestral  state 
Of  our  old  home ;  but  me  a  boy  as  yet 
He  tended  like  a  father,  till  the  time 
When  to  our  Northern  City  of  the  Snows 
I  went  to  gain  such  knowledge  as  became 
My  rank  and  birth.  Dear  brother,  who  didst  lavish 
Thy  love  and  care  on  me ;  in  that  blest  sphere 
Where  now  thou  art,  freed  from  this  load  of  life, 
Forgive  me  if  thou  canst  my  dreadful  wrong, 
Or  if  thou  fail,  forget  it ! 

The  swift  years 

Fled  by  and  left  me  man,  and  brought  with  them 
Such  gains  of  knowledge  as  my  studious  youth 
Untouched,  or  but  a  little  by  grosser  sense 
Or  careless  pleasures  of  the  idle  great. 

75 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Prized  above  all.  'Mid  those  gay  crowds  I  kept 

Dear  memories  of  the  old  ancestral  halls, 

The  high  Caucasian  peaks,  the  snow-fed  streams, 

Long  left  but  unforgotten,  the  brisk  air 

Breathed  'mid  the  trackless  pinewoods  of  my  home. 

All  these  preserved  my  youth  and  kept  it  pure, 

Till  last,  treading  the  paths  of  sober  love 

I  wooed  the  daughter  of  a  noble  house 

And  won  her,  and  I  thought  I  loved  her  well, — 

Ah  me  !  that  I  had  known  what 't  was  to  love  !  — 

Not  with  blind  passion,  but  with  tempered  glow 

Of  moderate  fervour,  such  as  lights  and  warms 

Thousands  of  happier  souls  who  live  calm  lives 

In  uneventful  wedlock  till  the  end, 

Nor  dream  that  they  are  loveless.  Ere  we  reached 

The  goal  of  marriage,  since  the  unfailing  use 

Of  noble  houses  when  their  scions  wed 

Divides  the  ancestral  lands,  I,  with  what  joy ! 

Forsook  the  noisy  city  for  a  while 

For  my  dear  native  hills.  My  brother  wrote 

To  bid  me  welcome.  He,  too,  now  was  wed 

'To  a  wife  the  pearl  of  women,  beautiful 

As  Venus'  self,  as  soon  my  eyes  should  see.' 

'Come,'  he  said,  'brother,  all  I  wish  for  you 

Is  that  your  wife  be  true  and  fair  as  mine.' 

76 


A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE 

And  then  I  left  the  murky  city  and  sped 

Swiftly  across  the  interminable  plains 

To  the  dear  hills.  Ah  me !  't  is  three  brief  years, 

No  more,  but  since  that  day  what  things  have  been — 

All  dead  !  and  by  whose  fault?  All  dead !  but  I, 

AVTio  come  once  more  to  meet  the  summer  sun, 

Banished,  degraded,  chained,  whom  all  men  shun, 

Doomed  to  a  death  in  life,  far  worse  than  death, 

A  monster  and  accurst. 

But  when  I  gained  the  well-remembered  hills, 

No  warning  voice  proclaimed  what  things  should  be, 

The  weird  old  towers,  the  old  familiar  fields 

Showed  nought  of  new,  since  I  a  budding  youth 

Left,  who  returned  a  man.  There  seemed  no  change 

In  any  save  in  me,  if  there  indeed, 

Seeing  that  the  old  loved  scenes,  the  eager  air, 

Stripped  from  me  all  the  dusty  past,  and  clothed 

My  life  with  a  new  boyhood.  At  the  gate 

My  brother  waited  with  a  warm  embrace 

Of  welcome.  The  brief  winters  which  had  passed 

Since  last  we  met  had  left  scant  trace  on  him ; 

Only  a  broader  brow,  a  form  which  showed 

More  stalwart  than  before ;  the  past  was  dead, 

The  past  was  gone,  and  I  a  boy  again, 

O'erjoyed  with  all  I  saw. 

77 


HARVEST-TIDE 

And  then  I  raised 
My  eyes,  and  of  a  sudden  knew  my  doom ! 

For  there  within  the  entrance  stood  revealed 

The  woman  of  my  dreams.  Of  stately  mien 

As  't  were  a  Goddess ;  the  dark  lustrous  eyes 

Of  Georgia,  the  divine  Caucasian  charm 

Which  makes  our  women,  fairer,  comelier  far 

Than  all  the  world  can  match.  On  the  sweet  lips 

A  smile  of  welcome  for  the  stranger  made 

My  heart  throb  high ;  something  I  seemed  to  gain, 

I  never  knew  before,  as  if  my  life 

Had  found  its  complement,  the  half  the  gods 

Of  fable  kept  when  half  was  given.  Deep  awe 

Chilled  me  as  who  at  midnight  calls  his  name 

And  sees  the  answering  spirit  of  himself; 

Or  as  the  hapless  hunter  when  he  spied 

The  Goddess  disarrayed ;  while  from  her  eyes 

Shot  a  swift  answering  gleam,  half  joy,  half  pain, 

Proving  a  mutual  wound.  I  found  no  word 

Of  greeting,  when  my  brother's  kindly  voice 

Made  known  to  me  my  sister.  — ' Sister,'  said  he? — 

Ah,  nearer,  dearer  far  than  any  tie 

Of  common  blood.  Yet  fenced  by  equal  bars 

From  honourable  love. 

What  need  to  tell 
78 


A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE 

The  dreadful  tale?  The  hidden  fatal  fire 
Repressed  in  vain,  tho'  by  no  word  declared, 
Nor  guilty  save  in  thought,  grew  every  day 
Stronger  and  dreadfuller. 

Day  after  day 

I  dallied  with  my  fetters,  knowing  well 
That  safety  lay  in  flight ;  until  at  last 
I  lost  the  wish  to  fly.  Then  one  sad  night, 
Despite  our  wills,  despite  our  shrinking  hearts, 
The  fire  long  smouldering  leapt  in  sudden  flame, 
Scorning  restraint,  and  mounting  terribly, 
Consumed  the  bars  of  honour,  duty,  faith, 
And  left  our  lives  in  ashes. 

When  't  was  done 

And  the  long  struggle  ceased,  we  knew  some  ghost 
Of  happiness,  though  haunted  by  the  dread 
Of  imminent  ill.  Ah  me !  when  I  recall 
Those  guilty  days,  compared  with  what  should  come, 
They  show  like  heavenly  glimpses ;  yet  were  they 
The  cause  of  all. 

Day  after  day  the  thought 

Of  what  discovery  brought  with  it,  mixed  sweet 
With  bitter,  hardly  as  I  think  the  sense 
Of  wickedness  oppressed  us,  we  had  found 
Some  poisonous  anodyne  to  blunt  the  qualm 

79 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Of  conscience,  and  despite  our  constant  fear 

Not  less  't  was  sweet  to  sin.  This  is  the  bribe 

The  Tempter  offers,  this  the  fatal  net 

He  spreads  for  souls,  and  damns  them,  and  I  durst  not 

Break  it,  nor  would,  though  now  the  fleeting  weeks 

Flew  onward  to  my  marriage ;  and  my  bride 

Who  should  be  soon,  wrote  lovingly  and  fain 

Would  hasten  my  return ;  but  still  I  found 

False  pretexts.  flt  was  difficult  to  divide 

Our  patrimony,  though  I  longed  to  end  it 

And  call  her  mine,'  but  went  not.  At  the  last, 

My  brother,  too  possest  by  noble  trust 

For  base  suspicion,  thinking  I  was  loth 

To  leave  our  ancient  home,  sent  messengers 

Unknown  to  us,  bidding  them  welcome  her 

To  her  brother's  home,  and  she,  deluded  soul, 

Came  willingly,  Love  calling,  to  her  doom. 

But  when  we  knew  that  she  would  come,  such  dread 
Of  what  should  be  possessed  us,  that  we  knew, 
As  by  some  sudden  lightning  flash  revealed, 
The  black  abysses  round.  Bid  her  not  come, 
We  durst  not,  that  were  damning  proof  indeed 
Of  guilt,  yet  if  she  came,  she  brought  with  her 
Discovery  of  our  wrong ;  the  woman's  wit 
Swifter  than  man's  slow  brain,  reads  at  a  glance 
80 


A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE 

The  secrets  of  the  heart,  and  there  remained 
Vengeance,  disgrace,  the  severance  of  the  bonds 
Which  now  grew  more  than  life — ay,  ay,  indeed, 
These  things  should  be  but  dreadfuller  by  far 
Than  any  we  had  dreamt  of.  Yet  some  gleam 
Of  hopeless  hope  sustained.  As  we  deceived 
My  brother,  so  perhaps  should  Fortune  aid, 
We  might  deceive  her  too ;  and  so  with  dread 
Vexing  us  day  and  night,  we  did  await 
Our  doom  and  hers. 

Ah  me  !  the  fatal  day 

When  at  the  last  she  came,  I  hurried  forth 
To  greet  her,  but  the  deep  o'ermastering  sense 
Of  some  calamity  she  could  not  name 
Oppressed  her,  and  the  lying  welcome  died 
Upon  my  lips  as  in  my  eyes  she  read 
A  love  estranged,  and  shrank  from  my  embrace, 
Shuddering  she  knew  not  why.  We  strove  in  vain, 
I  and  the  partner  of  my  sin,  to  feign 
The  welcome  which  we  felt  not,  and  I  saw, 
Half  pitying,  how  pale  she  seemed,  grown  sick 
With  hope  deferred,  and  how  the  unbidden  tears 
Sprang  to  her  eyes,  as  to  my  noble  brother 
She  turned,  while  he  with  half-paternal  words 
Would  comfort  her,  thinking  the  deep  fatigue 

81 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Of  her  long  weary  journey  from  the  North 
Had  sapped  her  strength.  Poor  souls,  I  pitied  them 
Whose  fate  drew  now  so  near,  though  scarce  as  yet 
I  knew  what  must  be.  At  the  little  feast 
Of  welcome  that  we  made,  a  little  while 
She  seemed  to  shake  from  her  the  load  of  care 
That  first  oppressed.  We  thought  our  secret  yet 
Lay  hidden,  and  grew  hopeful  to  escape 
The  eyes  of  jealous  love,  and  so  the  days 
Slipped  by,  and  we  grew  careless,  and  I  feigned 
To  love  her  still,  as  still  I  think  she  loved. 
Ah !  fools  to  hope  to  escape  the  searching  gaze 
Of  love's  clear  eyes.  For  tho'  we  strove  to  hide 
Our  wrong,  one  hapless  day  a  furtive  glance 
Surprised,  in  one  brief  instant  with  a  flash 
Discovered  all.  That  night  a  letter  came: 
'I  know  your  secret,  I  will  go.  I  pray  you 
Ere  't  is  too  late,  repent  you  of  your  wrong. 
Make  what  excuse  you  will  to  your  good  brother 
To-morrow  I  will  go,  nor  see  you  more.' 

Then  in  one  moment  the  impassable  net 
Our  sin  had  spread  around  us  stood  revealed, 
And  the  deep  pit  of  hell  which  yawned  before  us, 
Inevitable.  When  I  strove  to  feign 
Excuses  to  my  brother,  his  great  wrath 
82 


A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE 

Spurned  them,  and  suddenly  he  seemed  to  know 
The  dreadful  truth,  and  love  deceived,  and  faith 
Abused,  worked  such  a  tempest  in  his  soul 
As  broke  in  frenzy.  His  false  wife  he  drove 
Instantly  from  his  side,  myself  he  stung 
With  fierce  reproach,  but  since  I  was  his  brother 
He  spared  my  life.  Our  poor  unhappy  dupe, 
Who  yet  betrayed  us  not,  with  pitying  words 
He  comforted,  but  bade  us  from  his  sight, 
Till  he  should  fix  our  sentence ;  but  his  pride 
Of  noble  birth  and  blameless  life  unstained 
Constrained  him  to  keep  silence. 

That  same  night 

I  stole  to  where  she  was.  Without  a  word 
We  knew  our  doom,  and  the  one  only  way 
Of  safety,  though  it  led  through  blood  and  death, 
And  how  the  first  transgression  from  the  right 
Leads  on  by  crooked  paths,  till  when  the  day 
Is  fading,  lo !  the  inevitable  pit, 
Fronting  the  desperate  feet ;  no  turning  back, 
Nor  outlet,  but  through  black  depths  worse  than  death ! 
Hardly  a  word  we  spoke ;  our  purpose  showed 
Too  clear  for  speech.  I  carried  in  my  belt 
A  dagger,  as  our  Georgian  use  enjoins, 
And  she,  my  bane,  and  yet  my  love,  my  joy, 

83 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Pointed  to  it,  and  with  her  little  hand 

Tried  its  keen  edge,  and  motioned  toward  the  doors 

Here,  where  my  brother  slept,  there,  where  our  guest, 

With  such  a  dreadful  smile  as  leaves  a  man 

A  devil.  But  I  dared  not  do  the  thing, 

And  whispered,  fNot  my  brother.'  But  she  signed 

'Both;  it  were  useless  else.'  And  as  I  shrank 

With  tottering  limbs,  ' Quick;  I  will  come  with  you.' 

And  seized  the  light,  and  noiseless  gained  the  door 

Where  lay  the  Prince  asleep. 

One  stab,  one  groan, 
And  all  was  done.  Then  silently  we  went 
To  where  our  poor  dupe  lay.  One  stab  again 
And  all  was  done,  and  we  were  free  to  reap 
The  fruit  of  crime;  free,  said  I? — nay,  but  bound 
With  heavier  chains  than  these. 

But  when  't  was  done 

One  peril  still  remained.  'T  was  all  in  vain 
Should  we  not  hide  the  deed  !  She  bade  me  wake 
An  ancient  serving-man,  who  from  a  boy 
Had  served  my  house :  him,  with  what  lie  I  knovr  not 
Of  sudden  passion  and  revenged  offence, 
I  did  persuade,  so  that  he  should  conceal 
That  which  was  done,  and  with  me  bear  the  dead 
To  burial,  and,  since  't  was  their  fitting  end, 

84 


A  GEORGIAN   ROMANCE 

Should  lay  them  side  by  side.  At  dead  of  night 
None  seeing  us,  we  laid  them  in  the  mould 
Beneath  the  trees,  and  with  the  morning  feigned 
A  story  of  their  flight.  In  our  wild  hills 
Such  things  are  frequent,  overwhelming  gusts 
Of  furious  passion,  chilled  and  quenched  in  blood, 
And  none  would  doubt  the  story.  So  we  dwelt, 
I  and  the  partner  of  my  guilt,  secure 
In  the  old  house ;  and  all  men  pitied  us, 
Who  by  one  stroke  of  pitiless  fortune  lost 
She  the  dear  husband  of  her  love,  and  I 
My  destined  bride.  Fain  had  we  ended  there 
The  tale  of  black  offence,  but  still  remained 
One  damning  witness.  The  poor  serving-man 
Who  knew  our  innocent  victims  had  not  fled 
And  where  they  lay,  held  o'er  our  heads  a  sword 
Suspended  by  a  hair.  How  could  we  rest 
While  this  man  lived  ?  Sure  't  was  a  little  thing 
If  we  who  sinned  so  deeply  sinned  once  more? 
What  was  a  poor  serf's  life  that  we  should  spare  it 
Who  had  shed  noble  blood?  And  so  it  came 
That  ere  a  little  month  had  staled  our  wrong 
The  poor  soul  died.  So  sudden  was  his  end 
Men  talked  of  poison,  but  since  none  could  trace 
What  enemy  was  his,  they  asked  no  more. 

85 


HARVEST-TIDE 

'T  was  but  a  nine  days'  wonder,  but  perchance 
He  knew  some  perilous  secret  of  the  Great. 

Then  seemed  we  safe  indeed,  and  lived  awhile 
In  decent  seeming  grief  within  the  walls 
Which  now  were  mine;  but  (as  'twas  noised  abroad,) 
The  losses  we  deplored,  the  empty  halls 
Filled  with  the  haunting  Past,  the  corridors 
Echoing  at  night  the  sounds  of  ghostly  feet, 
Troubled  our  peace.  No  more  the  ancient  home 
She  loved,  nor  I,  but  loathed  it.  Most  of  all 
We  loathed  to  pass  those  dreadful  doors  which  hid 
A  double  murder.  Therefore,  as  the  heir 
Of  the  Prince,  if  dead  he  were,  or  as  his  steward 
Till  his  return,  if  still  he  walked  the  earth, 
To  a  rich  neighbour  I  demised  his  lands 
And  old  ancestral  towers.  Then  we  sped  forth, 
I  and  my  widowed  sister,  in  feigned  grief 
But  secret  joy,  seeking  to  hide  ourselves 
From  prying  eyes,  as  natural  law  ordains 
The  afflicted  should,  and  separate  awhile, 
By  different  roads,  our  name  and  rank  concealed, 
At  length  we  came  together  and  were  wed 
By  some  poor  priest,  and  lived  a  peaceful  life 
For  three  brief  years,  tranquil,  sometimes  and  calm 
As  from  a  blameless  Past,  but  ofttimes  stirred 
86 


A  GEORGIAN   ROMANCE 

By  sudden  storms.  Ah !  dark  unpitying  Fate, 
Which  kept  our  lives  asunder,  lives  that  sought 
Each  other,  but  in  vain,  till  Love  was  siu, 
And  sin  bred  crime. 

Far  in  the  frozen  North, 
In  a  grey  castle  'mid  wolf-haunted  pines, 
We  made  our  home.  Three  little  years  we  spent 
Together, — 'twas  not  long  for  us  who  bought 
Our  gain  so  dear, — nor  was  it  peace  indeed. 
We  knew,  but  rather  conscience  drugged  asleep, 
Starting  with  sudden  fears —  a  nightmare  dream, 
From  which  we  woke  with  staring  eyes  and  lips 
That  syllabled  murder— for  between  our  souls, 
Clinging  together,  rose  the  ghostly  slain, 
The  strong  man,  the  weak  woman,  the  poor  serf, 
All  dead  and  by  our  hands.  And  yet  I  think 
We  were  not  all  unhappy.  Time  can  wither. 
Not  Hope  alone  but  holds  an  anodyne 
To  blunt  the  tooth  of  conscience.  Not  remorse, 
But  dread  and  coward  fears,  o'ershadowiug  all, 
Blighted  our  lives,  till  long  security 
Brought  scarce  disturbed  content; — 'twas  little  gain 
For  two  souls  damned  for  ever. 

Till  at  last, 

When  the  sad  Past  grew  dim,  a  horrible  dread 
87 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Rose  with  a  flaming  sword  and  drave  us  forth 

From  that  poor  guilty  Eden.  For  we  read 

'  How  the  new  Lord  of  our  lost  home  commanded 

That  they  should  delve  hard  by,  some  little  dyke, 

And  when  't  was  done,  behold  two  skeletons 

Lay  side  by  side.  And  tho'  't  was  no  strange  matter 

In  our  wild  Caucasus  of  passionate  feuds, 

Where  blood  flows  fast  as  water,  here  was  proof 

Of  dreadfuller  than  wont.  For  when  they  raised 

The  poor  remains ;  upon  the  finger-bone 

Of  the  taller  shone  an  emerald  signet-ring, 

Which   all    men    knew,    and    'twas    the    Prince    my 

brother's, 

Who  never  left  his  home,  but  lay  beneath 
His  old  ancestral  trees,  and  by  his  side 
A  woman's  slenderer  form.  What  mind  could  doubt 
It  was  the  missing  girl,  whose  flight  they  mourned 
For  three  long  years?  Nay,  nay,  she  had  not  fled. 
No  secret  tale  of  shame  was  buried  with  them 
Who  lay  there  thus  at  rest.  The  dead  girl's  honour 
Showed  stainless  now,  and  her  great  kinsfolk's  pride 
Saved  from  reproach.  They  mingling  grief  with  joy, — 
Grief  she  was  dead,  joy  she  was  pure, — made  oath 
To  avenge  her,  and  the  sleuth-hounds  of  the  law, 
Already  loosed  upon  her  murderers'  track, 

88 


A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE 

Quested,  as  yet  in  vain.  Where  had  they  gone, 
The  false  wife  and  her  blood-stained  paramour? 
They  should  be  trapped,  since  still  on  Russian  soil 
Doubtless  they  lurked  in  hiding.'  When  I  read 
These  damning  words,  fain  had  we  turned  to  fly. 
But  whither?  since  the  guarded  frontier  rose 
A  wall  of  brass  before  us.  So  we  stayed, 
In  hopeless  hope  that  haply  the  great  peril 
Might  pass  us  by,  as,  trembling  in  each  limb, 
The  hapless  quarry,  waiting,  hears  the  cry 
Of  the  hot  chase  grow  louder,  nearer  still, 
And  scarcely  dares  to  breathe.  And  for  long  months 
Our  silent  trackless  forests  and  deep  snows 
Baffled  the  hunters,  till,  though  pale  and  worn 
By  long  suspense,  my  guilty  love  and  I 
Thought  once  more  we  were  safe. 

Then  one  grim  day 

Last  autumn,  when  the  southward-flying  sun 
Had  gone,  and  taken  life  and  hope  with  it, 
There  as  we  sat  within  the  ruddy  glow 
Of  the  piled  hearth,  cheering  the  solitude, 
Two  guilty  loving  hearts,  while  all  around 
The  tokens  of  our  ill-got  wealth  relieved 
The  gloom  without,  sweet  flowers  and  gems  of  price 
Rich  hangings,  and  the  golden  light  which  keeps 
89 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Perpetual  June  amid  the  sunless  gloom 

Of  Yule,  our  summons  came.  Sudden  the  door 

Swung  open,  and  upon  the  warmth  and  light 

Of  luxury  a  dank  and  deadly  chill 

As  from  an  open  grave.  A  rattle  of  arms, 

And  quick,  the  stem-eyed  officers  of  law 

Stood  round  us,  and  we  knew  the  end  was  come,  — 

The  end  of  guilty  dalliance, — the  end 

Of  long  anxieties.  For  it  was  Death 

That  knocked,  and  Vengeance,  and  the  Powers  of  Hell. 

And  then  they  severed  us,  without  a  word, 
Only  one  long  last  kiss,  and  locked  her  fast 
A  prisoner  in  our  chamber  in  the  tower. 
She  had  no  power  to  speak,  nor  chance  to  doff 
Her  gems  of  price,  but  like  a  Queen  she  went 
To  her  doom,  for  such  it  was.  Great  God !  how  fail- 
She  showed,  as,  flushed  with  some  strange  counterfeit 
Of  innocence,  and  eyes  that  blazed  like  fire 
With  proud  contempt,  she  put  from  her  the  hands 
That  would  have  hindered.  As  she  reached  the  stair 
She  turned  and  looked  on  me,  and  in  her  gaze 
I  read  a  mute  farewell,  while  at  my  belt 
Her  eyes  seemed  seeking  something,  and  I  knew 
Once  more  what 't  was  they  sought.  But  neither  blade 
Nor  arm  was  there.  Then  I  saw  fade  and  die 
90 


A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE 

The  fury  from  her  eyes,  and  in  its  stead, 
Writ  legibly  for  love's  keen  gaze  to  see, 
A  dreadful  purpose,  offspring  of  despair. 

Then  with  their  pitiless  skill,  till  night  was  near, 
In  that  luxurious  room,  where  late  we  sat 
Alone,  with  none  to  mark  us,  deep  content 
Soothing  each  sense,  they  plied  their  torturing  art 
Of  question ;  an  inextricable  net 
They  wound  around  us  mesh  by  mesh,  while  I, 
Like  a  poor  bird  caught  in  the  fowler's  toils, 
Was  powerless  to  escape.  Fain  had  I  bade  them 
Forbear  and  I  would  tell  them  all,  such  horror 
Of  that  sad  tale,  retold  in  icy  words, 
Possessed  me ;  but  remembering  who  it  was 
Who  shared  my  guilt,  hopeless  I  wandered  on, 
Tightening  the  noose  around  our  lives,  but  still 
Denying  all. 

Then,  when  some  mocking  gleam 
Of  hope  relieved  despair,  what  shriek  assailed 
My  agonised  ears?  what  body  flashed  and  fell 
Past  the  tall  windows  from  the  height  above 
With  a  dull  crash  on  the  new-fallen  snows, 
Staining  them  red  ?  Ah  me !  I  knew  too  well. 
I  saw  death  in  her  eyes  when  up  the  stair 
Silent  she  swept.  Then,  not  with  grief,  but  joy 
91 


HARVEST-TIDE 

That  she  was  safe  from  men,  her  fate  fulfilled, 

And  I  need  lie  no  longer,  (See,'  I  cried, 

'She  is  dead.  You  shall  know  all.  We  two  together 

Did  those  dark  deeds.  'T  was  Love  that  urged  us  on, 

Not  that  of  spouse  or  bride  or  brother,  but  Love 

That  burns  our  lives  with  fire.  Now  she  has  gone. 

Beyond  the  reach  of  vengeance  on  the  earth 

Let  me  go  too.  We  did  it,  we  together, 

None  else ;  we  stabbed  them  in  their  dreamless  sleep ; 

They  did  not  cry,  nor  suffer  much,  I  think ; 

'T  was  a  swift  blow.  And  one  there  was  beside 

Who  bare  them  forth  to  burial.  Listen  to  me ! 

I  poisoned  him,  because  we  dared  not  trust 

Our  dreadful  secret  with  him.  That  is  all. 

I  do  not  wish  to  live.  Respect,  I  pray  you, 

That  mangled  corpse,  for  she  was  innocent 

In  the  law's  eye  and  noble.  Ye  who  live 

In  bonds  of  happy  love  for  wife  and  child, 

Pity  us  if  you  can.  I  do  give  thanks 

To  all  the  Powers  that  rule  and  mar  our  lives, 

No  child  of  ours  shall  know  its  parents'  shame. 

Deal  with  me  as  you  will.' 

But  my  wrecked  life 

They  spared,  since  I  was  noble.  Ah !  the  farce 
Of  rank  and  false  nobility  which  gilds 
92 


A  GEORGIAN  ROMANCE 

So  oft  the  ignoble  brow ;  but  in  this  place 

All  men  are  equal,  as  they  are  in  Hell, 

And  I  shall  spend  my  manhood  in  the  depths 

Of  the  dark  mine,  nor  put  aside  the  load 

Of  misery  till  manhood  wanes,  and  age 

Blunts  the  desire  to  live.  Say,  was  it  she — 

My  love,  who  was  a  wife  tender  and  true 

Till  the  sad  day  we  met ;  who  had  no  thought 

For  any  but  her  lord,  but  lived  bright  years 

Of  faithful  wedlock — she,  who  bade  me  slay 

Her  love  and  mine  together?  Was  it  I, 

The  blameless  student,  whose  calm  eye  disdained 

The  spell  of  venal  beauty — I,  whose  thought 

Dwelt  ever  on  the  heights,  and  daily  walked 

In  converse  with  the  mighty  dead  of  Time, 

With  Plato  and  with  Socrates,  and  him 

Who  took  all  knowledge  for  his  own,  and  him 

The  Saint  of  the  old  East,  and  Him  whose  Voice 

The  round  world  hears,  but  heeds  not,  and  the  choir 

Of  Saints  and  Sages  blest ;  I,  whose  soft  heart 

Sickened  at  blood  and  pain;  who  did  this  wrong? 

Or  do  men  bear  twin  natures,  one  of  Heaven 

And  one  of  Hell?  Or  is  it  that  to-day, 

Despite  the  gains  of  Time,  the  Word  Divine, 

The  counsels  of  Perfection,  with  their  law 

93 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Of  Mercy  to  all  things ;  and  Purity 

And  Justice,  still  a  vengeful  Ate  drives 

Our  lives  to  ruin,  and  a  cruel  Fate, 

Unpitying  and  resistless  as  of  old, 

Turns  men  to  devils?  Let  me  meet  my  fate; 

I  care  not  what  shall  come.  If  I  should  die, 

'T  were  well ;  or  should  I  live,  perchance  long  years 

May  dim  the  dreadful  Past,  and  leave  my  age 

Cleansed  by  retributive  pain.  At  least  I  lose 

The  haunting  fear,  the  cold  voice  threatening  doom, 

Nor  yet  am  wholly  damned." 

These  things  I  heard, 
And,  musing  as  I  went,  I  knew  again 
The  old  voice  heard  before,  "  There  is  an  end 
Of  Wrong  and  Death  and  Hell." 


94 


WHITHER? 

TREAD  down  oh  Man,  beneath  thy  feet,  the  brute, 
Not  that  the  sinless,  innocent  brute  which  still 
Goes  on  its  way  unshamed,  undoubting,  mute, 
Obedient  to  the  pre-ordained  will. 

But  that  which  deep  within  your  nature  lurks 
Unseen,  nay  scarce  suspected ;  tooth  and  claw 
Red  with  the  stain  of  age-long  time,  and  works 
Beneath  the  dull  unpitying  primal  law. 

Put  off  the  curse  of  war,  the  shame  of  strife 
Make  thou  the  hates,  the  miseries  to  cease, 
But  yet  forget  not  that  the  flower  of  life 
May  wither  in  the  windless  glare  of  Peace. 

The  Heaven  our  souls  desire  is  more  than  rest, 
Act  is  our  Law,  our  Joy,  our  highest  meed ; 
By  work  and  that  alone  our  souls  are  blest 
And  whoso  gains  it,  he  is  blest  indeed. 

Remember  thou  of  how  great  dignity 
Is  he  who  sees  life  whole  and  sees  it  one 
95 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Who  knows  the  Past,  and  what  the  world  shall  be, 
Full  grown  when  its  long  pupilage  is  done. 

Put  off  the  satyr  with  his  carnal  leer 
Put  off  alike  the  tiger  and  the  ape 
Keep  justice,  love,  and  reasonable  fear 
Immortal  Spirit  clothed  in  mortal  shape ! 

Put  off  alike  the  worldling  and  the  saint, 

The  aims,  too  thin,  all  earthy,  grovelling  things 

The  curse  of  greed,  the  aspirations  faint 

For  heights  too  cold  and  far,  for  flagging  wings. 

Put  off  the  ascetic,  shun  the  sensual  sty, 
Scorn  not  our  dual  Nature,  nor  let  Pride 
Exchange  for  fruitful  earth  the  barren  sky, 
Since  Earth  and  Heaven  are  here  and  side  by  side. 

Let  Woman  be  the  equal  mate  of  Man, 
And  let  the  love  of  all  the  race  inspire 
With  deeper  glow  than  earthly  passion  can 
A  soul  that  kindles  with  diviner  fire. 

Fulfilled  with  calm  beneficent  liturgies 
Keep  thy  undaunted  soul,  content  to  sleep, 
96 


WHITHER? 

If  such  thy  Fate,  for  ever,  or  to  rise 

When  the  Voice  calling  wakes  thy  slumbers  deep ; 

The  Voice  Divine  which  sounds  from  soul  to  soul, 
The  Voice  which  still  from  Youth  to  Age  doth  call, 
Unceasing  though  the  earth  forget  to  roll, 
And  all  her  wandering  sisters  swerve  and  fall. 


97 


BY  TOWY-SIDE 

ON  these  fair  meads,  through  half  a  summer-day 
Beside  the  blue-eyed  river-deeps  I  lie, 

There  comes  no  sound  to  chase  my  dreams  away, 
Nor  veil  to  hide  the  clear  reflected  sky, 

The  low  hills  smile  around  on  either  hand, 

And  up  the  vale  the  solemn  mountains  stand. 

No  change  for  half  a  changeful  century, 
Fair  river,  hast  thou  known,  since  I,  a  boy, 

Would  haste  of  summer  noons  to  plunge  in  thee, 
Snatching  unmarked  a  dear  forbidden  joy ; 

Nor  shall  a  thousand  centuries  passing  trace 

One  wrinkle  on  thy  smooth  unageing  face. 

Sweet  wandering  Towy,  sinuous,  silvery, 

Glide  on  by  town  and  tower,  unchanging  glide, 

Pursue  thy  path  of  beauty  to  the  sea, 

Till  thy  flow  weds  the  salt  inrushing  tide ! 

Thus  rolled  of  old  thy  undiscovered  flood, 

When  the  new  world  was  born  in  pain  and  blood. 


Within  thy  depths,  ere  man  had  come  to  birth, 
Dread  mailed  forms  with  gory  jaws  would  lurk, 
98 


BY  TOWY-S1DE 

The  ravening  monstrous  shapes  which  swayed  the  earth, 

Ere  Nature  framed  her  last  consummate  work ; 
Thou  sawest  within  thy  ooze  huge  Saurians  lie, 
And  wide-winged  spoilers  hurtling  thro'  the  sky. 

And  then  for  age  on  age,  when  Man  arose, 
The  gibbering  savage  mirrored  in  thy  deep ; 

Red  wars,  oppressions,  hatreds,  countless  woes, 

Rude  hearts  that  broke,  while  Mercy  seemed  asleep, 

While  thou,  thro'  those  dim  generations  gone 

Unchanged,  unruffled,  flow'dst  serenely  on. 

And  then  thro'  all  our  fateful  history, 
Long  centuries  of  war  and  cruel  strife : 

Our  Wales  o'erborne,  our  Britain  free  and  great ; 
Our  old  race  rising  with  renascent  life;  — 

Still  from  thy  cold  hill-fountains  didst  thou  come 

To  seek  as  we  the  Deep  which  is  our  home. 

Men  come,  men  pass,  but  thou  flow'st  seaward  still, 
Brute  Nature,  thou  immortal  art  alone ! 

The  sea,  the  stream,  the  plain,  the  heavenward  hill 
Built  high  with  ramparts  of  eternal  stone ; 

We  who  have  life  and  breath,  we  faint,  we  die, 

Ye  only  view  unmoved  the  unchanging  sky. 
99 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Yon  towns  and  towers  shall  fall ;  the  land  lie  bare 
Or  choked  with  forests  dense ;  and  on  thy  shore 

The  flocks ,  the  herds,  the  bathers  come  no  more, 
None  there  shall  be  to  mark  that  thou  art  fair. 

Only  the  lone  hills  shall  encompass  thee, 

Thy  comrades  blind  and  dumb  while  Time  shall  be. 

Thou  shalt  glide  still,  fair  stream,  uncaring  on, 
Till  sea  shall  be  no  more,  nor  earth  nor  sky, 

Till  all  the  hapless  race  of  men  be  gone, 

And  some  dread  fire  shall  burn  thy  fountains  dry. 

Thou  in  thy  changing  flow  unchanging  art, 

As  is  the  unchanging  changeful  human  heart. 

Glide  on,  O  silent  stream :  I  would  a  tongue 
Were  thine,  to  chant  the  mysteries  of  Time ! 

By  one  weak  voice  thou  shalt  not  pass  unsung, 
Glide  to  Life's  sea  continual,  sublime. 

Thou  shalt  not  pass  away  un  rhymed  so  long 

As  men  have  ears  to  hear  a  humble  song. 


100 


PILGRIMS 

SLOWLY  against  the  gradual  slope, 
Following  the  morning  gleam  of  hope, 
With  feeble  forces  slow, 
Our  childish  footsteps  go ; 
From  flower  to  flower  we  stray, 
To  cheer  our  upward  way, 
Till  the  day  draws  to  noon, 
And  our  life's  year  to  June. 

And  then  while  Springtide  cheers  us  still, 
We  press  with  Youth's  impatient  feet 
High  thoughts  and  fancies  sweet, 
Against  the  cloud-wrapt  hill. 
Higher  we  mount,  and  higher, 
Beneath  the  tyrannous  sun 
Which,  till  the  day  is  done, 
Burns  with  unsparing  fire. 

Love  whispers  flutter  in  the  breeze, 
Love  rests  within  the  grateful  shade, 
Safe  hid  'neath  secular  trees, 
Our  summer  home  is  made. 
101 


PILGRIMS. 

BY  SIR  LEWIS  MORRIS 

SLOWLY   against    the    gradual    slope, 
Following   the    morning-light   of   Hope 
With    feeble   paces   slow, 
Onr   childish    footsteps   go. 
From   flower   to    flower    we   stray 
To   cheer   our   upward    way, 
Till    morning   draws    to   noon 
And    our   life's   year   to  June. 

And    then,    while   springtime    lights    us   still, 

We   press,    with    Youth's    impatient    feet, 

High    aims    and   visions   sweet 
Against    the    cloud-capped    hill. 
Higher   we   mount    and    higher 

Beneath    the   tyrannous   sun, 

Which    till    the   day    is   done 
Burns    with    unsparing   fire. 

Ambition    beckons    from    the    height 

And    Pleasure    from    the    pine's    cool    shade; 

Of  striving   and    delight 

Our  summer   life    is   made. 

A    little,    little   while 

The    hurrying   noontides    smile, 

Till    on    the   summits    far — 

Lo !    the    white    evening   star ! 

Then    our   reluctant    feet   again 
Slope    down    to   the    forsaken    plain ; 
No    more    the    heights,    the   skies, 
Allure   our   weary    eyes, 
But   dewy    twilights   deep, 

The   tranquil    rays   of  home, 

Where    ere   the   nightfall    come 
Love   giveth   rest  and   sleep. 

O    sacred    Love,    still    at    my    side 
My    feeble,    faltering    footsteps    guide ! 
O    blessed    presence,    still, 
Crossing   life's   difficult    hill, 
Let    thy    protecting   arm 
Save   me    from    hurt   and    harm ! 
Guide    me,    nor    let    me    stray 
Alone    upon    my    way. 


PILGRIMS 

SW)WLY  against  the  gradual  slope, 
Following  the  morning  gleam  of  hope, 
With  feeble  forces  slow, 
Our  childish  footsteps  go ; 
From  flower  to  flower  we  stray, 
To  cheer  our  upward  way, 
Till  the  day  draws  to  noon, 
And  our  life's  year  to  June. 

And  then  while  Springtide  cheers  us  still, 
We  press  with  Youth's  impatient  feet 
High  thoughts  and  fancies  sweet, 
Against  the  cloud-wrapt  hill. 
Higher  we  mount,  and  higher, 
Beneath  the  tyrannous  sun 
Which,  till  the  day  is  done, 
Burns  with  unsparing  fire. 

Love  whispers  flutter  in  the  breeze, 
Love  rests  within  the  grateful  shade, 
Safe  hid  'neath  secular  trees, 
Our  summer  home  is  made. 
101 


HARVEST-TIDE 

A  little,  little  while 
The  enchanted  noon-tides  smile, 
Till  o'er  the  summits  far, 
Behold  the  evening  star. 

And  then  our  failing  feet  again 
Slope  down  to  the  forsaken  plain, 
No  more  the  snows,  the  skies, 
Dazzle  our  weary  eyes. 
But  dewy  twilights  deep, 
And  light  and  warmth  of  home, 
Where,  ere  the  nightfall  come, 
Love  giveth  rest  and  sleep. 

Oh,  sacred  Love,  still  at  my  side, 
My  feeble  faltering  footsteps  guide, 
Oh  blessed  Presence  still, 
Upon  Life's  rugged  hill, 
Let  thy  protecting  arm 
Save  us  from  hurt  and  harm. 
Guide  Thou  us,  lest  we  stray 
Far  from  Thy  perfect  way. 


102 


AN  OLD  POET 

MY  hand,  my  pen,  lie  still, 

My  voice  is  dumb, 
No  more,  unsought,  at  will 

Bright  visions  come ; 
No  more  on  faery  meads, 

The  light  forms  dance, 
Nor  borne  by  winged  steeds 

Speeds  swift  Romance 
Along  the  rugged  road, 

With  toiling  paces  slow, 
Bent  by  Time's  heavy  load, 

The  dull  feet  go. 

The  clear  Dawns  now  shall  grow 

For  younger  eyes, 
I  mark  no  more  the  glow 

On  sunset  skies ; 
Fearless  across  the  foam 

The  gay  barks  fleet, 
But  mine  no  more  may  roam, 

Since  rest  grows  sweet, 
Toil  brings  its  fitting  meed 

The  haven's  rest ; 
103 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Toil  has  its  joys  indeed, 
But  this  is  best. 

Let  younger  footsteps  soar 

To  snows  untrod, 
I  strive,  I  climb  no  more, 

Musing  with  God. 
Through  the  closed  gates  of  home 

Unheeded,  half-forgot, 
Fainter  the  memories  come 

Of  what  is  not. 
The  Past  shows  like  a  dream, 

The  Present  hurries  fast ; 
Courage !  Life's  seaward  stream 

Flows  calm  at  last ! 


104 


IN  PRAISE  OF  NIGHT 

No  breath  of  morning  wakes 
The  languid  dreaming  night ; 

Nor  through  the  thick  leaves  breaks 
A  gleam  of  light. 

But  on  the  brooding  calm, 
And  ghostly  silence  deep, 

Is  shed  a  dreamy  balm 
Of  Rest  and  Sleep. 

Then  sudden,  thro'  the  trees, 
Listening,  unstirred  around, 

Flutters  a  fairy  breeze 
With  whispering  sound. 

And  straightway  from  the  throat 
Of  some  half-waking  bird, 

One  hesitating  note, 
Dawn's  earliest  word. 

And  then  the  tranquil  night, 
Faints  in  the  garish  ray.  — 

Loud  song,  and  broader  light, 
Alas !  't  is  Day. 

105 


ON  AN  OLD  STATESMAN 

NIGHT  falls,  nor  yet  we  may  discern  the  Dawn ; 

The  sick  Age  dies,  and  with  it  takes  the  Great, 

Like  perfect  music  trembling  to  its  close, 

Or  some  full  river  smoothing  to  its  end. 

Thou  art  gone  from  us,  O  friend, 

O  precious  life  that  so  long  served  the  State ; 

Thou  art  gone  from  us,  and  fled, 

To  join  the  undying  dead  ! 

Dead!  nay,  to  lie  so  long  breathing  reluctant 

breath, 

With  fainting  forces  is  not  Life  but  Death ; 
But  at  the  last  to  'scape  Earth's  toil  and  strife, 
That  is  not  Death  but  Life  ! 
That  is  not  Death !  and  thou,  thou  art  not  dead, 
Strong  soul,  beloved  head, 
Tho'  hidden  in  some  secret  sphere  afar, 
Some  faint,  undreamt-of  star, 
In  God's  mysterious  infinite  air, 
Hidden  we  know  not  how,  we  ask  not  where ! 
There  is  no  Death,  but  only  change 
To  some  new  higher  birth  and  strange ; 
There  is  no  Death,  but  thou,  thou  livest  still, 

106 


ON  AN  OLD  STATESMAN 

Brave  soul,  undaunted  will. 
Thou  silvery  tongue,  thou  old  man  eloquent, 
Stout  patriot,  hater  of  triumphant  wrong, 
Who  ever  didst  despise  the  ignobly  strong ; 
For  threescore  years  to  guide  our  Britain  sent. 
There  is  no  Death,  nor  will  we  mourn  to-day, 
Only  our  prayers  we  send  to  speed  thee  on  thy  way. 
But  oh !  if  fair  faint  memories  of  the  Earth 
As  is  our  hope,  breathe  thro'  thy  newer  life, 
Forget  not  thou,  in  that  thy  higher  birth, 
The  dear  dead  Past,  thy  noble  emulous  strife, 
The  victories  of  Peace,  the  friendless  weak 
For  whom  thy  swift  tongue  ever  burned  to  speak. 
Forget  not  thou  our  well-loved  land,  nor  yet 
The  wider  Britain  of  our  hope  forget, 
Nor  those  who  on  the  sad  Armenian  plain  — 
As  late  on  earth  thou  knewest  with  bitter  pain — 
The  Moslem  fiend,  dishonours,  tortures,  slays ; 
Nay,  iu  the  pauses  of  the  eternal  Psalm 
Ceasing  a  little,  while  from  praise 
Of  Him  who  is  "most  sure  in  all  His  ways," 
Wrapt  in  a  holy  calm, 
Plead  thou  and  intercede 

For  all  weak  sunken  lives  that  here  on  earth  do 
pine ! 

107 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Plead  thou,  that  War's  black  curse  may  quickly  cease 

In  all-pervading  Peace, 

And  speed,  if  any  voice  once  mortal  can, 

The  onward  March  of  Man. 


108 


ON  A   YOUNG  STATESMAN 

IN  MEMORIAM:  THOMAS  ELLIS 

BALA,  APRIL  11,  1899 

HERE  in  this  place  of  Peace  we  make  his  grave, 

Tranquil,  alone, 
Only  LJyn  Tegid  sobs  with  constant  wave, 

The  low  winds  moan. 

Here  as  the  silent  mountains  stand  around 

Salem,  the  blest, 
Comes  no  faint  murmur  of  contentious  sound 

To  break  his  rest. 

For  this  was  he  whom  happy,  favouring  Fate, 

In  manhood's  bloom, 
Called  to  high  service  of  the  grateful  State, 

And  then — the  Tomb. 

Child  of  the  people,  ever  proud  to  keep 

The  ancient  tongue, 
The  stern  strong  Faith,  the  bardic  measures  deep, 

The  old  hymns  sung. 
109 


HARVEST-TIDE 

The  Tiller's  lot  he  knew,  borne  down,  distrest, 

With  none  to  teach, 
The  God-sent  gifts  by  ignorance  represt 

Fired  his  swift  speech. 

Blossom  and  fruit  of  that  new  Dawn  of  gold, 

That  happier  Spring, 
Whither  our  Wales,  with  lofty  hope  grown  bold 

Spreads  her  glad  wing. 

Ah !  deem  it  not  that  he  was  called  from  toil, 

To  rest  too  soon, 
Escaping  from  life's  sad  years'  blight  and  soil, 

While  yet 't  was  June. 

Whatever  is  is  best,  His  will  be  done, 

We  dare  not  weep ; 
Not  all  His  work  is  wrought  beneath  the  Sun 

Who  giveth  sleep. 

Sing,  sing  in  faith  your  hymns !  Give  thanks !  Rejoice  \ 

" Ac  yn  ei  fedd." 
Let  the  dead  hear  his  country's  grateful  voice, 

"Duw  rho  dy  hedd." 


110 


LYDSTEP   CAVERNS 

HERE  in  these  fretted  caverns  whence  the  sea 
Ebbs  only  once  in  all  the  circling  year, 
Fresh  from  the  deep  I  lie,  and  dreamily 
Await  the  refluent  current  stealing  near. 
Not  yet  the  furtive  wavelets  lip  the  shore, 
Not  yet  Life's  too  brief  interlude  is  o'er. 

A  child  might  play,  where  late  the  embattled  deep 
Hurled  serried  squadrons  on  the  rock-fanged  shore, 
Where  now  the  creaming  filmy  shallows  creep, 
White-horsed  battalions  dashed  with  ceaseless  roar, 
Stirred  by  no  breath,  the  tiny  rock-pools  lie 
Glassing  in  calm  the  blue  September  sky. 

The  shy  sea  bares  her  guarded  treasures  here, 
Her  delicate  bosom  open  to  the  light, 
Unclothed  I  lie,  where  never  foot  comes  near, 
Unshamed  as  't  were  in  watches  of  the  night. 
Fine  as  a  maiden  veil  of  thinnest  lawn, 
From  the  white  strand  the  creamy  vesture  drawn. 

Here  in  the  cool  recesses  of  the  cave, 
Tho'  sweet  to  lie,  to  dream,  't  were  doom  to  sleep, 
111 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Lest  sudden  some  impatient  crested  wave, 
High-horsed,  unbitted  from  the  outer  deep, 
Shut  fast  the  gate  of  life,  and  choked  the  breath, 
And  left  me  prisoned  in  the  vaults  of  death. 

To-day  the  many-hued  anemone, 

Waving  expands  within  the  rock-pools  green, 

And  swift  transparent  creatures  of  the  sea 

Dart  through  the  feathery  sea-fronds,  scarcely  seen, 

Here  all  to-day  is  peaceful  calm  and  still, 

Here  where  in  storm  the  thundering  breakers  fill. 

Here  where  the  charging  ocean-squadrons  rave, 

And  seethe  and  shatter  on  the  sounding  shore, 

And  smite  this  high-arched  roof,  and  wave  on  wave 

Fall  baffled  backward,  with  despairing  roar, 

Or  fling  against  the  sheer  cliffs  overhead, 

And  sow  these  vaults  with  wreckage  and  the  dead ; 

Now  all  is  still.  Yet  ere  to-day  is  done, 
Where  now  these  fairy  runnels  thread  the  sand 
Five  fathoms  deep,  the  swelling  tides  shall  run 
Round  the  blind  cave,  and  swallow  rock  and  strand, 
And  this  discovered  breast  on  which  I  lie 
Shall  clothe  itself  again  with  mystery. 
112 


LYDSTEP  CAVERNS 

Here  through  the  rayless  darkness  of  to-night, 
Great  fishes,  fiery-eyed,  with  ravening  jaw, 
Hungering  will  sail,  and  gorge,  and  rend,  and  bite, 
Obedient  to  the  pitiless  primal  law, 
And  black  eels,  slimy,  sinuous,  haste  to  tear 
The  hapless  swimmer  drowned  and  drifting  there. 

And  from  their  secret  hollows  in  the  deep, 

Mailed  things  obscene,  hooked  claw  and  waving  horn 

Where  now  I  lie,  will  thronging  dart  and  creep 

To  batten  on  the  violate  limbs  forlorn, 

Great  devil-fish  with  strangling  arms  will  cling, 

And  sting-rays  flap  and  slide  on  impish  wing. 

And  then  again  the  ebbing  tide  will  spurn 

The  dank,  dead  thing  which  lived  and  thought  to-day 

Or  haply  whirl  it  when  its  forces  turn 

To  the  lone  plains  of  ocean,  leagues  away, 

Sunk  in  its  rayless  depths  for  evermore, 

Or  flung  dishonoured  on  some  alien  shore. 

So  full  is  Nature  of  unrest  and  change, 
So  wasteful  of  her  work,  so  deaf,  so  blind, 
So  careful  of  her  brute  decretals  strange, 
So  careless  of  the  empery  of  mind. 
113 


HARVEST-TIDE 

To  her  the  hearts  that  burn,  the  souls  that  soar, 
Are  as  her  humblest  weed  and  nothing  more. 

Yet  like  the  soul  in  this,  her  fullest  tide 
Ebbs  furthest,  and  her  inmost  deeps  lays  bare ! 
Turn  refluent  wave  and  swiftly  deepening  hide, 
These  haunted  rare-revealed  abysses  fair. 
There  is  a  calm  more  perilous  than  strife, 
Better  the  droughts,  the  steeps,  the  glare  of  life ! 


114 


LUX  IN  TENEBRIS 

AH!  what  is  life?  A  flickering  fire 
That  on  the  black  vault  feebly  burns, 

A  force  which  struggles  to  aspire, 

Then  sudden,  quenched  to  earth  returns. 

And  what  is  Truth?  Our  striving  eyes 
Pursue  in  vain  the  fleeting  light ; 

Beyond  the  darkling  hills  it  flies 
And  ere  we  gain  them,  lo !  the  Night. 

And  what  is  Knowledge,  but  a  gleam, 

A  little  light,  a  puny  spark, 
A  phantasy,  a  ghost,  a  dream, 

Which  only  glimmers  in  the  dark? 

The  low  sun  sinks,  the  night  is  here, 

Life,  Truth,  and  Knowledge  fade  and  die ; 

But  from  the  illimitable  sphere, 
New  suns  unnumbered  light  the  sky. 


115 


ON  THE  THAMES  EMBANKMENT 

(  AUGUST  1897  ) 

IN  the  hush  of  the  midsummer  night 

The  roar  of  the  City  grew  still, 

There  shivered  a  breeze  thro'  the  sentinel  trees, 

Like  a  thin  ghost  fleeing  the  light. 

Then  the  Dawn  came  up  dreary  and  chill, 

And  not  another  sign  of  life  might  be 

But  the  black  river  rolling  seaward  sullenly. 

But,  there  by  the  parapet  side, 

Oh !  what  is  that  pitiful  throng 

Stretched  supine,  drowned  deep  in  the  waters  of  sleep, 

Dotting  the  riverside  pavement  wide, 

Like  sere  leaves  down  the  vistas  long ; 

That  sum  of  hopeless,  homeless  misery 

Fringing  the  sullen  river  labouring  to  the  sea? 

At  times  from  Dome  and  from  Tower, 
High  minster  and  abbey  gray, 
Falls  the  solemn  swell  of  the  echoing  bell 
With  its  knell  of  the  world's  dark  hour, 
With  its  hope  of  the  heavenly  Day ; 
116 


ON  THE  THAMES  EMBANKMENT 

But  not  a  sound  reaches  those  hapless  ears 
Drugged  deep  by  drink  and  weariness  and  tears. 

With  no  rest  for  the  weary  head, 

The  stern  city's  outcasts  lie, 

Ruined  lives  brief  and  long,  the  feeble,  the  strong, 

With  the  granite  their  only  bed, 

Sad  comrades  in  misery ; 

And  the  mouldering  obelisk  rears  it  wedge  sublime 

As  erst  by  the  old  Nile  in  the  infancy  of  Time. 

Ah !  beneficent  magic  of  sleep, 

Fair  country  of  dreams  thrice  blest, 

Where  old  hearts  grow  young  and  old  love  songs  are 

sung, 

Wheats'  the  tired  eyes  forget  to  weep. 
Where  the  stiffened  limbs  loosen  in  rest, 
And  folly,  failure,  wantonness,  nay,  crime, 
Seem  cleansed  in  those  still  depths,  and  all  the  stains 

of  time. 

There  they  dream  till  the  aching  limb, 

Wakes  the  sleeper  to  life's  dull  pain, 

And  the  hoarse  croak  of  Death  chokes  the  labouring 

breath 

And  the  dulled  senses,  happily  dim, 
117 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Seem  barbed  with  new  anguish  again ; 
And  still  no  happier  sight  or  sound  may  be 
Than  the  black  river  labouring  sullen  to  the  sea. 

But  to  one  poor  wanderer  there 
Comes  the  trampling  of  measured  feet, 
And  the  harsh  command,  which  constrains  him  to  §tand 
In  the  dark  lantern's  "blinding  glare 
With  a  heart  that  forgets  to  beat ; 
Not  thus  his  long  dead  mother  woke  her  son 
When  work  and  bread  were  his  and  the  brief  night  was 
done. 

"Move  on!"  rings  the  short,  sharp  word, 

But  where  shall  the  wanderer  go, 

With  no  share  from  birth  in  the  niggardly  earth, 

More  homeless  than  beast  or  than  bird? 

Whither  carry  his  burden  of  woe? 

Yet  the  Law  speaks,  and  he  must  needs  obey, 

And  hopeless  fare  alone  upon  his  desperate  way. 

Then  he  sprang  with  a  bitter  cry 

From  his  lair  on  the  cold,  hard  stone, 

Stood  a  moment  upright  in  the  Dawn's  drear  light, 

•w^*^ 

Then,  bidding  his  comrades  "Good-bye," 
Leapt  into  the  depths  with  a  groan. 
118 


ON  THE  THAMES  EMBANKMENT 

A  plunge,  a  sound,  and  that  wrecked  life  is  gone, 
While  the  black  leaden  river  rolls  unheeding  on. 

Only  a  wanderer's  life, 
One  of  myriads  who  linger  behind, 
Crushed  to  earth,  trampled  down  by  the  merciless  town, 
And  its  cruel  struggle  and  strife. 
Not  the  less  to  a  questioning  mind 
These  sad  tales  preach  the  solemn  mystery 
Of  Life,  and  Fate,  and  Death,  and  the  dark  swallowing 
Sea. 


119 


IN  PRAISE  OF  DECEMBER  EVENINGS 

Stow  on  the  waning  landscape  creeps  the  night, 
On  hill  and  plain  the  gathering  shadows  fall, 
Till,  last,  soft  darkness  like  a  velvet  pall, 
Veils  all  the  fading  fields  and  blinds  the  sight ; 
Then  from  the  hidden  hamlets  here  and  there, 
From  hillside  cot,  or  stately  mansion  fair, 
Clear  through  the  frosty,  or  the  milder  air, 
Twinkles  home's  beacon-light. 

Dear,  swift  December  evenings,  homelier  far 
Than  are  June's  perfumed  twilights,  warm  and  still, 
Her  saffron  skies,  and  primrose  evening  star, 
Her  golden  sunsets  on  the  purple  hill, 
Her  sports  upon  the  green,  her  village  boys 
Chasing  the  bounding  ball  with  merry  noise, 
Her  dreaming  lovers'  visionary  joys 
Which  fill  young  spirits  still. 

Thine  is  a  sober  loveliness,  denied 
To  those  glad  twilights  of  triumphant  June, 
When  all  the  flower-lit  fields  are  glorified, 
And  Love  and  Youth  move  to  a  joyous  tune ; 
120 


IN  PRAISE  OF  DECEMBER  EVENINGS 

Too  strong,  too  fast,  the  impetuous  pulses  come, 
Too  restless  for  the  calm  content  of  home, 
Too  far  afield  the  impatient  fancies  roam 
In  Life's  young  Summer-tide. 

But  thou,  in  solemn  robes  of  sombre  grey, 
The  wayward,  wandering  fancy  dost  recall, 
Thy  star-sprent.  mantle  hides  the  dying  day, 
Gently  thy  kindly,  brooding  shadows  fall ; 
By  June's  rich  voice  Love's  melodies  are  sung, 
The  glad,  the  blithe  unreason  of  the  young; 
Thine  the  low  tranquil  tones,  the  silvery  tongue 
Which  calms  and  comforts  all. 

Fall,  swift  December  evening,  not  with  snow, 
Rude  blast,  or  drenching  rain,  but  clear  and  fine, 
With  breathless  calm,  or  West-wind  whispering  low, 
Till  Yule-tide  brings  again  its  hope  divine ! 
Summer  is  gone,  with  anxious  hopes  and  fears ; 
Life's  tranquil,  wintry  joys,  its  precious  tears, 
The  lamp  that  lights,  the  hearth  which  warms  and 

cheers, 
Are  all,  are  only,  thine ! 


121 


THE  UNION  OF  HEARTS 

AN  ODE 

THE  Spaniard  has  fallen !  has  fallen  !  Give  thanks  and 

rejoice, 

Great  West,  with  a  consonant  voice ; 
The  Spaniard  has  fallen,  the  blight  of  the  ages  has 

fled, 
And  for  ever  the  rule  of  the  priest  and  the  monk  lies 

dead 

Upon  the  Philippine  and  Cuban  shore. 
By  the  Pacific  and  the  Carib  sea 
The  savage  Spanish  soldier  comes  no  more, 
The  isles  once  more  are  free, 
No  more  the  down-trod  peoples  cry  in  vain, 
In  long-unheeded  pain ; 
They  are  free,  they  are  free  once  more,  after  rebellious 

years 

Of  misery  and  tears. 

Famine,  Oppression,  Torture,  Murder,  long 
Stalked  through  the  land,  and  all  the  hosts  of  Wrong, 
But  now  the  black  night  spent,  the  reign  of  Evil  done, 
High  in  the  unwonted  skies  a  miracle  appears, 
And  from  the  West  ascends  the  fair  unhoped-for  Sun. 

122 


THE  UNION  OF  HEARTS 

Thrice  happy  are  the  eyes  which  mark 

Amid  the  unbroken  dark, 

A  feeble,  struggling  ray, 

The  first  precursor  of  approaching  day, 

We  who  live  now,  midst  crash  of  shot  and  shell, 

And  wreck,  and  blood,  and  fire  as  fierce  as  hell, 

Discern  a  wonder  to  renew  the  Earth, 

New-mailed  to-day  a  Titan  comes  to  birth. 

Born  late  in  Time,  the  Empire  of  the  Free, 

Lording  the  West,  co-heiress  of  the  Sea, 

By  whose  strong  arm  and  stronger  thought  and  word 

Shall  all  mankind  be  stirred ; 

A  might  which  joined  with  England's  shall  increase 

The  happier  doom  of  Man,  the  victories  of  Peace. 

Strong  were  our  brave  forefathers  bold, 
Who  fought  the  stubborn  Don  before, 
On  many  a  perilous  sea  and  tropic  shore, 
In  those  adventurous  days  of  old  ; 
Who  chased  his  towering  galleons  one  by  one 
From  sea  to  storm-tossed  sea,  from  shoal  to  rock, 
Till  that  great  tempest  blew  fierce  with  resistless  shock, 
And  God  accomplished  what  their  hands  began. 
Laud  we  the  dauntless  sailors,  whose  rude  might 
Saved  Europe  and  the  world  from  the  long  curse 
Of  the  priests'  crooked  ways,  and  worse, 
123 


HARVEST-TIDE 

The  Ignorance  he  loves  as  bats  the  night. 

Not  yet  a  century  has  fled  since  he, 

Champion  of  every  European  sea, 

Fought  in  his  little  ship  of  English  oak 

With  those  proud  banded  fleets,  and  broke 

Not  Spain  alone,  but  spurned  the  tyrant's  yoke 

Which  menaced  all  the  trembling  world ;  and  kept 

Inviolate  our  motherland,  who  bore 

The  mighty  empire  we  acclaim  to-day — 

Our  daughter  who  shall  keep 

Dominion  o'er  the  deep 

When  we  and  all  our  power  have  passed  away. 

Laud  we  our  watchful  sires  who  never  slept, 

But  kept  alive,  undimmed,  by  land  and  sea 

A  beacon  fire,  the  Freeman's  sovereignty. 

Laud  them,  but  never  let  our  thought  forget 
The  fresh  wounds  bleeding  yet ; 
The  brave  knights-errant  who  by  land  and  sea, 
'Mid  pestilence  and  misery, 

'Neath  blinding  suns,  and  glare,  hunger  and  thirst, 
Sought  only  who  should  face  the  foeman  first, 
Mown  down  by  shot  and  shell,  yet  climbing  still 
Against  those  grinning  casemates  on  the  hill ; 
For  hours  untended  'neath  a  tropic  sky, 
Left  hopeless  in  the  pitiless  glare  to  die. 
124 


THE  UNION  OF   HEARTS 

Young  lives  for  whom  till  then,  Life's  primrose  way 
Lay  smiling  uneventful  day  by  day. 
Sons  worthy  of  their  sires,  who  willing  gave 
Wealth,  health,  love,  life  itself  to  free  the  slave, 
But  those  for  home  and  country  fought,  while  they 
For  alien  sufferings  flung  their  lives  away. 

And  praise  those  strong  new  Paladins  of  to-day 
Who  keep  alive  our  glorious  story  still, 
The  dauntless  seamen  who  with  patient  skill 
Waiting  on  daring,  drove  the  hapless  prey 
To  wreck  and  ruin,  while  the  unerring  stroke, 
Of  giant  bolts  the  steel-mailed  cruisers  broke, 
Scatheless  themselves,  and  yet  whose  pitiful  hand 
Succoured  the  vanquished.  Worthy  sons  are  they 
Of  Drake  or  Nelson,  or  that  gallant  band 
Those  later  heroes  of  their  own  loved  land, 
Who  bore  for  all  to  mark,  the  chivalry 
And  daring  of  the  Sea. 

Nor  shall  a  generous  people  yet 
Their  eulogy  forget 

Who  fought  a  hopeless  fight  and  fought  it  well ; 
The  humble  lives  which  in  the  blazing  hold 
Half-naked,  bleeding,  dreadful  to  behold, 
Braved  the  dread  doom  of  fire, 
125 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Who  lately  from  the  leaguered  harbour  went 

With  lace  and  cross  and  warlike  ornament 

To  death  as  to  a  feast.  Stout  hearts  and  undismayed  ! 

Not  to  the  free  alone,  but  to  the  slave 

'T  is  given  to  be  brave. 

Nor  lastly  shall  our  souls  forget 

The  mighty  silent  sister,  whose  strong  fleets 

Stud  each  discovered  sea, 

Whose  warm  heart  after  age-long  discords  beats 

Oh,  sister  land  in  harmony  with  thee ! 

But  for  her  watchful  squadrons  who  can  tell 

What  stress  of  sordid  jealousies  befell, 

What  hindering  force  of  harm, 

The  glorious  work  of  thy  avenging  arm  ? 

'T  was  England's  might  secured  thy  work  to  thee ! 

Kinsman  to  kin  allied,  freeman  to  free, 

Together  oh,  great  sisters,  ever  keep, 

Together  rule  the  highway  of  the  Deep, 

Together  sound  the  knell  of  tyranny, 

Swear  a  great  oath  that  Thought  and  Man  are  free ! 

Together  raise  a  beacon  from  afar, 

The  Light  of  Equity  too  strong  for  War, 

Together  let  your  tranquil  realms  increase, 

Till  all  the  future  of  mankind  is  Peace ! 


126 


SIR  GALAHAD 

LET  others  sing  with  earthy  lays 

Of  women  fair  or  brown  ; 
Not  such  the  Goddess  that  I  praise 

As  worthy  of  a  crown. 
A  snowy  neck,  a  sparkling  eye, 

Red  lips  and  rippling  hair, 
Not  these  the  charms  for  which  I  sigh, 

Not  these  adorn  my  fair. 


Let  those  who  will,  with  crapulous  mirth, 

Exalt  the  praise  of  wine  ; 
I  hold  their  joys  of  little  worth, 

Not  such  a  worship  mine. 
To  the  enfranchised  soul  and  thought 

The  sordid  gains  of  sense 
And  mean  delights  are  less  than  nought 

Compared  with  innocence. 

But  let  me  chase  from  vale  to  hill 

My  visionary  Love  ; 
Pursuing  ever,  baffled  still, 

Yet  beckoned  from  above. 
127 


HARVEST-TIDE 

From  youth  to  age,  from  life  to  death, 
This  dream  my  soul  shall  keep 

Till  with  my  last  expiring  breath 
I  wake  at  length  from  sleep. 


128 


A  CAROL 

DARK  are  the  days,  the  nights  are  long, 

Blithe  Summer's  joys  are  done, 
Yet  in  our  hearts  we  keep  the  Sun, 

And  raise  a  cheerful  song. 
Bare  is  the  world,  or  deep  in  snow, 

Yet  are  our  souls  aglow, 
What  spell  is  this,  what  still  mysterious  voice, 

That  calls  "Rejoice!  Rejoice!" 

It  is,  that  on  the  weary  earth 

With  every  dying  year 
A  great  hope  dawns,  a  glorious  birth, 

Returns  our  souls  to  cheer. 
Again,  again,  the  Eternal  Child, 

The  Virgin-Mother  mild, 
Ring,  joy-bells,  ring,  clear  through  the  frosty  air, 

Ring  gladness  everywhere. 

Sound,  gracious  as  that  heavenly  word 

Of  old  in  Bethlehem, 
By  night  of  wondering  shepherds  heard, 

When  angels  spake  with  them. 
129 


HARVEST-TIDE 

"Peace,  peace  on  earth  to  faithful  men/' 

This  be  our  strain  as  then, 
To-day,  to-day  let  all  rejoice  indeed, 

Whate'er  their  form  of  creed. 

Peace  be  and  joy  !  Ay,  though  it  seem 

To  world-worn  eyes  and  ears 
Across  dark  gulphs  of  strife  and  tears, 

Only  a  heavenly  dream, 
Divine,  divine  our  souls  shall  hold 

Those  precious  words  of  old, 
Goodwill  and  peace  to  men — the  halt,  the  blind, 

The  poor,  nay,  all  mankind. 

Therefore  we  raise  our  cheerful  song, 

A  strain  of  solemn  mirth, 
Our  hope  is  clear,  our  faith  is  strong, 

In  a  regenerate  Earth. 
No  doubt  shall  come  our  eyes  to  dim, 

Or  check  our  faithful  voice, 
To  Peace  on  Earth,  we  raise  our  Christmas  hymn, 

Whose  burden  is  "Rejoice." 


130 


.; 
.  ^ 

AT  THE  POPULAR  CONCERTS 

( 1868-98 ) 

SILENT  with  listening  soul  I  hear, 
Strains  hushed  for  many  a  noisy  year, 
The  passionate  chords  which  wake  the  tear, 
The  sweet  old  love-songs  dear. 

The  dreams  of  youth  surround  me  still, 
Thin  thronging  ghosts  the  benches  fill, 
The  old  hopes  glow,  the  old  fears  chill, 
Dead  aspirations  thrill. 

A  little  graver,  or  more  gray, 
Though  thirty  years  have  fled  away, 
Scarce  changed,  the  same  musicians  play 
The  self-same  themes  to-day. 

How  swift  Time  fleets,  yet  here  how  slow, 
How  scant  the  visible  changes  show, 
New  hopes  inspire,  new  empires  grow, 
Yet  still  the  master's  bow 

With  magic  wakes  the  slumbering  string; 
Glad  tears,  the  slow  bass  gains  to  bring; 
131 


HARVEST-TIDE 

The  silvery,  swift  sonatas  ring, 
High  soaring  voices  sing. 

'T  is  I  am  changed,  yet  ah !  not  cold, 
Oh,  precious  tones  and  strains  of  old, 
Still  round  Life's  warring  discord  fold 
Linked  harmonies  of  gold. 


132 


SHINE  CLEAR,  SHINE   BRIGHT 

SHINE  clear,  shine  bright,  celestial  wells  of  light, 
And  pierce  the  mists  that  bound  our  earthly  sight, 
Dispel,  disperse  night's  gathered  shades  away, 
Till  the  dawn  broadens  into  perfect  day. 

Sound  pure,  sound  clear,  upon  the  listening  ear, 
High  faultless  accents  of  the  starry  sphere ; 
Silence  earth's  warring  cries  of  doubt  and  pain, 
And  wake  the  primal  harmonies  again. 

Calm  blessed  hands  unfelt,  rebellious  sense, 

With  the  cool  vestal  touch  of  innocence, 

Beam  on  us  still,  invisible  gaze  serene, 

And  lift  our  minds  where  long  our  hearts  have  been. 

Thus  only  shall  our  purged  spirits  rise 

Thro'  sight  and  touch  and  hearing  to  the  skies, 

Thus,  only  our  enfranchised  souls  pursue 

Some  ghost,  some  note,  some  vesture  of  the  True. 


133 


IN  MEMORIAM 
WILLIAM  EWART  GLADSTONE 

AY,  thou  hast  gained  the  end 
Of  long  and  glorious  strife, 
Consoled  by  love  and  friend, 
Thrice  blessed  life ! 
If  all  the  immortal  die 
What  gain  hath  life  to  give, 
If  all  the  immortal  live 
Death  brings  no  sigh  ! 

Oh,  long  life  lit  with  praise 
For  Duty  nobly  done, 
High  aims,  laborious  days, 
And  the  crown  won ! 
Why  should  we  mourn  and  weep 
That  thou  dost  toil  no  more? 
At  length  God  gives  thee  sleep, 
Thy  labours  o'er ! 

The  crying  of  the  weak 
Called  not  to  thee  in  vain ; 
Thy  swift  tongue  burned  to  speak 
Relief  to  pain. 

134 


IN   MEMORIAM 

The  lightning  of  thy  scorn 
No  wrong  might  long  defy, 
Thy  ruth  for  lives  forlorn, 
Thy  piercing  eye. 

Good  Knight !  no  soil  of  wrong 
Thy  spotless  shield  might  stain ; 
Thy  keen  sword  served  thee  long, 
And  not  in  vain. 
Oh,  high  impetuous  soul, 
That,  mounting  to  the  Light, 
Spurned' st  the  dull  world's  control 
To  gain  the  Right. 

'Mid  strife  the  Century  dies — 
Massacre,  Famine,  War; 
The  noise  of  groans  and  sighs 
Is  borne  afar. 

The  monstrous  cannon  roar, 
The  earth,  the  air,  are  torn, 
'Mid  thunderings  evermore 
Time's  Dawns  are  born ! 

But  thou  no  more  art  here, 
But  watchest  far  away, 
Calm  in  some  peaceful  sphere, 
The  Eternal  Day. 
135 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Oh,  thou  who  long  didst  guide 
Our  Britain's  loyal  will, 
Invisible  at  her  side 
Aid  thou  her  still ! 

Oh,  aged  life  and  blest, 
Wearing  thy  duteous  years, 
Enter  thou  on  thy  rest ; 
We  shed  no  tears  ! 

Wear  thou  thy  labours  to  thy  country  given, 
Thy  eloquent  tongue,  thy  keen  untiring  brain, 
Thy  changeless  love  of  Man,  thy  trust  in  Heaven, 
Thy  crown  of  Pain. 


136 


DARK  RAYS 

THROUGH  the  abysses  unsuspected  roll 

Dark  orbs  unnoted  by  the  bodily  eye 

Yet  visible  to  the  soul, 

The  labouring  ages  wane  and  die, 

Low  burns  and  lower  life's  expiring  sun, 

Man's  history  is  done. 

Yet  tho'  no  eye  detect  the  rayless  star 

Shed  from  those  unimagined  regions  far, 

Blind  influences  are. 

Yea,  though  it  fail  to  shine, 

Some  dark,  invisible  light, 

Some  secret  force  malefic  or  divine 

Pierces  the  encircling  night. 

Not  only  'neath  high  noon's  unclouded  sky 

Our  onward  march  is  spent, 

But  with  us  on  our  dim  unlighted  way, 

Mysterious  guides  are  sent ; 

Dark  powers  unseen  for  good  or  ill, 

Direct,  mislead,  oppress  man's  hesitating  will. 


137 


FOR  BRITAIN 

A  SOLDIER'S  SONG 

(  DECEMBER  1899  ) 

OH,  our  Britain  is  a  noble  realm,  as  all  the  nations  know, 
She  fought  the  Don,  the  Gaul,  the  Russ,  and  brought 

their  boastings  low ; 
She  rules  the  stormy  main,  she  holds  full  half  the  earth 

in  fee, 
And  where  her  glorious  banner  flies,  there  every  man 

is  free. 

Chorus — Then  cheer  for  noble  Britain  all,  with  one ! 

two !  three ! 
Triumphant  ever  shall  she  be,  o'er  land  and 

over  sea ; 
The  sword  and  gun  were  never  forged  could 

make  our  Mother  rue, 
While  stalwart  arms  and  loyal  hearts  are  to 

their  Country  true. 

Maybe  the  crafty  Muscovite  would  bring  her  greatness 

down, 
Maybe  the  Dutchman  grudges  her  her  greatness  and 

renown ; 

138 


FOR  BRITAIN 

Our  friends  across  the  herring-pond  grow  spiteful  now 

and  then, 
So  ironclad  let  her  navies  be,  and  hearts  of  oak  her 

men. 

Chorus — Then  cheer  for  noble  Britain  all,  with  one! 

two !  three ! 
Triumphant  ever  shall  she  be,  by  laud  and 

over  sea ; 
The  sword  and  gun  were  never  forged  could 

make  our  Mother  rue, 
While  stalwart  arms  and  loyal  hearts  are  to 

their  Country  true. 

Ay,  never  fear  for  Britain,  let  the  plotters  work  their 
will, 

Let  them  skulk  in  treacherous  ambush,  belching  fire 
from  rock  and  hill ; 

Though  her  generals  may  blunder,  though  her  bravest 
sons  are  slain, 

Though  her  best  blood  flows  like  water,  and  the  sacri- 
fice seems  vain — 

Chorus — Still  cheer  for  noble  Britain,  and  ere  yet  your 

tears  are  shed, 

Tend  the  wounded,  feed  the  children,  who 
have  lost  for  you  their  bread ; 
139 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Never  doubt  our  final  triumph,  we  will  rout 

them,  never  fear, 
When  we  bolt  them  from  their  rat-holes,  to 

the  open,  fair  and  clear. 

Let  us  set  our  teeth  together,  till  the  bloody  task  is 

done, 
Never  doubt  our  final  triumph — we  will  make  the 

Burghers  run, 

Lance,  bayonet,  and  sabre  we  will  make  the  rebels  feel, 
Krupp  himself  can  forge  no  truer  than  our  home-made 

British  steel. 

Chorus — Then  cheer  for  noble  Britain  all,  with  one ! 

two !  three ! 
Triumphant  ever  shall  she  be,  by  land  and 

over  sea ; 
The  sword  and  gun  were  never  forged  could 

make  our  Mother  rue, 
While  stalwart  arms  and  loyal  hearts  are  to 

their  Country  true. 

March  together!  all  are  comrades,  peer  and  peasant, 

knit  in  one, 
North,  South,  East,  West,  by  common  bonds,  till  all 

the  peril 's  done, 

140 


FOR  BRITAIN 

Scotch,  Irish,  Welsh,  Colonial,  with  our  England's 

power  and  pride, 
One  Queen,  one  Realm,  one  People,  and  Columbia  at 

our  side. 

Chorus — Then  cheer  for  noble  Britain  all,  with  one! 

two !  three ! 
Triumphant  ever  shall  she  be,  by  land  and 

over  sea, 
The  sword  and  gun  were  never  forged  could 

make  our  Mother  rue, 
While  stalwart  arms  and  loyal  hearts  are  to 

their  Country  true. 


141 


FROM  DAWN  TO  EVE 

THE  swift  dawn  groweth, 

The  frail  flower  bloweth, 

Solemn  Eve  brings  her  shades, 

The  sweet  blossom  fades ; 

This  is  the  secret  of  the  ancient  Earth, 

This  is  the  primal  mystery  of  birth. 

Full  noon  rides  on  high, 

Through  the  shadowless  sky, 

Black  clouds  gather  round, 

Fanged  with  fire  big  with  sound ; 

This  is  the  tale  of  Life,  portentous,  strange, 

Chequered  with  pain,  the  sport  of  Time  and  Change. 

The  fountain  upspringeth, 

The  strong  pinion  wingeth, 

The  weak  waters  sink  down, 

And  the  tired  bird  has  flown ; 

This  is  in  brief  the  tale  of  the  breathing  of  breath, 

This  is  the  sum  of  man's  story  from  Birth  unto  Death. 


142 


ON  A  BIRTHDAY  \^ 

(  MAY  24,  1899  ) 

FOURSCORE  long  years,  fourscore ! 
Maiden  and  wife  and  mother,  pure  and  white, 
A  blameless  life  lived  in  thy  people's  sight, 
What  would  our  longing  more? 

Fourscore  blest  years  to-day, 
Lived  on  a  giddy  height,  yet  not  borne  down 
By  the  great  burden  of  the  Imperial  crown, 
In  solitary  sway. 

All  the  long  perilous  years 

That  thou  hast  ruled,  always  thy  people's  Queen, 
Loyal  to  Law  and  Freedom  hast  thou  been 
Through  joy  alike  and  tears. 

Throned  in  thy  nation's  heart 
The  despot's  crooked  ways  thou  could'st  not  know ; 
To  watch  the  broadening  tide  of  freedom  grow, 
This  was  thy  selfless  part. 

Always  thy  people's  pain, 
Thy  tender  woman's  heart  with  pity  stirred ; 
143 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Thy  generous  hand,  thy  gracious  royal  word, 
Were  never  sought  in  vain. 

Upon  thy  widowed  throne, 
Seated  apart  from  all  in  lonely  state, 
Alone,  thou  didst  confront  thy  regal  fate, 
Unaided  and  alone. 

Nay !  for  thy  royal  heart 

Thy  people's  love  sustained ;  blest  memories  still 
Of  too  brief  happiness  thy  soul  could  fill 
And  nerve  thee  for  thy  part. 

Sustained,  supported  still 
In  that  deep  solitude  which  hems  the  great 
A  feeble  hand  to  guide  the  helm  of  state, 
But  an  Imperial  will. 

And  ranged  around  thy  throne 
Children  and  children's  children,  puissant,  strong, 
His  offspring  even  as  thine,  a  sceptred  throng; 
Nay,  thou  wast  not  alone  ! 

Of  pageantries  of  state 

Patient,  the  hills,  the  seas  thou  holdest  dear, 
A  crowned  Republican,  simple,  austere, 
Contented  to  be  great. 

144 


ON  A  BIRTHDAY 

Oh,  aged  thin-drawn  life, 

Whose  golden  thread  binds  fast  the  world  in  peace, 

Not  yet,  not  yet,  may  thy  worn  forces  cease 

To  bar  the  gates  of  strife ! 

Thy  grandsire  flung  away 
A  people's  loyal  love  thro'  stubborn  pride ; 
Re-knit  to-day  the  kinsmen  side  by  side, 
Acclaim  thy  gentle  sway. 

No  higher  glory  thine 

Than  this,  the  best  achievement  of  thy  life, 
That  sister  peoples  spurning  hate  and  strife 
For  peace  and  love  combine ! 

Fourscore  such  years,  fourscore ! 
No  greater  gift  than  this  high  Heaven  can  send ; 
Front  thou  unfearing,  Mother !  Sovereign !  Friend ! 
What  still  it  holds  in  store ! 


145 


A   FRAGMENT 

THEN  rose  a  shout, 

As  of  a  people  long-time  mute,  which  found 
A  sudden  voice  and  with  it  power.  The  cry 
Blending  in  one  loud  roar,  the  unnumbered  sum 
Of  petty  dissonant  lives,  laughter  and  tears, 
Rage,  terror,  pleasure,  triumph ;  mingled,  blent 
In  one  consentient  utterance ;  burst  a  flood 
In  thunder  down  the  echoing  colonnades 
And  dim  recesses  of  the  storied  shrines, 
Where  dwelt  the  elder  gods ;  big  with  high  dooms 
And  presages  of  Fate.  Then,  ere  it  fell, 
The  clamour  like  a  bickering  thunder  rolled 
Afield  beyond  the  city  gates,  and  woke 
The  silent  river  loitering  to  the  sea, 
Till  the  shy  sea-mews  wailed.  Last  on  the  hills 
Untrodden,  dim,  which  hung  'tween  plain  and  sky, 
Mounting  it  smote,  and  on  her  eyrie  roused 
The  watchful,  nesting  eagle,  till  she  raised 
Her  half-closed  eyelids ;  the  light-footed  fox 
Pricked  a  keen  ear ;  all  birds  and  beasts  of  prey, 
Seeking  their  meat  in  silence  in  the  night, 
Paused  from  the  quest  a  moment  at  the  shock 

146 


A  FRAGMENT 

Of  that  strange  formless  roar.  Anon  it  died, 

Swallowed  in  silence ;  and  the  loneliness 

Of  that  still  listening  world  grew  terrible, 

As  is  the  ghostly  rush  of  worlds  which  wheel 

For  ever  through  the  ages  dumb  and  dead  ; 

Yet  no  voice  came.  But  what  had  been,  had  been. 


ARMED  PEACE 
(  JANUARY  1899  ) 

THE  hopes  of  Humanity  fly,  the  doubts  and  the  terrors 

remain, 
Knowledge  droops  and  the  Churches  sigh,  and  the 

world  is  girdled  with  pain, 
The  shadow  of  War  broods  deep,  alike  over  mainland 

and  sea, 
And  men's  eyes  stare  vacant  of  sleep  for  thought  of  the 

evils  to  be. 
Man  sickens  as  under  a  curse,  and  only  his  burdens 

increase, 
Scarce  are  War's  dread   calamities  worse,  than   the 

blight  of  an  Armed  Peace, 
Deflowered  is  his  innocent  youth,  brought  low  is  the 

Pride  of  the  Race, 
With  its  wings  that  would  soar  to  the  Truth,  fallen 

earthward  in  deep  disgrace, 
The  young  men  sober  and  chaste,  strong  sires  of  the 

ages  to  come, 
On  the  stews  or  the  tavern  waste  the  temperate  virtues 

of  home, 


148 


ARMED   PEACE 

The  maidens  their  destined  wives,  in  pure  wedlock  and 

motherhood  sweet, 
Pine  unwedded,  unsought,  and  alone,  or  dishonour  the 

sin-befouled  street. 
Allured  and  engrossed  by  the  cost  of  the  engines  of 

slaughter  and  pain, 

Half  the  fruits  of  Science  are  lost,  spent  on  deadly  de- 
vices in  vain, 
Overburdened,  fettered  and  bound,  faint,  despairing, 

ill-housed  and  ill-fed, 
The  workers  lie  crushed   to  the  ground  in  a  bitter 

striving  for  bread ; 
In  kennels  obscene  they  are  pent,  where  hardly  a 

hound  should  dwell, 
While  the  wealth  that  might  free  them  is  spent  on  a 

nightmare  of  imminent  hell. 
Scarce  a  pittance  is  left  men  to  spare  for  the  needs  of 

the  pitiful  throng, 
Who  assail  them  with  impotent  prayer  in  vain,  tho' 

the  suffrage  be  strong. 
Nor  succour  to  give  to  the  old,  the  feeble,  the  outcasts 

forlorn, 
Who  in  nakedness,  hunger,  and  cold  curse  God  that 

they  ever  were  born. 


149 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Nor  clear  voice  of  learning  to  rouse  the  slumbering 
spirit  and  brain, 

Nor  Homes  of  Compassion  to  house  the  sad  sum  of  in- 
curable pain. 

For  Moloch  cries  loud  for  his  dead,  with  a  thunderous 
roar,  and  his  shrine 

Craves  the  flesh  of  the  peoples  for  bread,  and  the  blood 
of  their  slaughter  for  wine. 


150 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  BRITAIN 
(  APRIL  1898  ) 

MY  Britain,  they  cavil  and  sneer, 
And  bid  thee  take  heed  to  thy  ways, 
Forgetting,  oh,  Motherland  dear, 
Thy  secular  praise ! 
How  wherever  thy  proud  banner  flew 
Freedom  followed,  with  order  and  right, 
And  thy  sails  lit  the  limitless  blue 
Like  pillars  of  Light ! 

Nay,  my  England,  thou  wilt  not  forget, 
Thou  the  mother  and  home  of  the  free, 
The  bounds  by  thy  Destiny  set 
'Twixt  the  nations  and  thee. 
Not  thine,  the  mad  folly  to  boast, 
With  the  braggart  delighting  in  war ; 
But  to  guard  thy  inviolate  coast, 
And  thy  children  afar. 
No  need  for  their  warning  is  thine 
Lest  thou  fall  from  vainglory  and  pride ; 
Oh,  mother  of  men,  half-divine, 
Bearing  sway  far  and  wide ! 

151 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Though  the  frost  of  the  Muscovite  chain 

The  nomads  Rome  never  might  tame ; 

Though  childless  France  crackle  in  vain 

Like  a  thorn-brake  aflame, 

With  no  worthier  message  to  guide 

The  peoples  who  bow  to  her  rod, 

Than  crowned  Wantonness,  Faith  thrust  aside, 

And  denial  of  God ; 

The  stiff  German's  mechanical  drill 

Dash  to  ruin  the  hopes  of  the  South, 

Till  men  hear  with  a  wondering  chill 

The  harsh  words  of  his  mouth ; 

Till  Armenia,  till  Hellas  again 

Are  swept  by  the  Mussulman  flood, 

And  the  loathly  Turk  triumphs  in  vain ; 

Through  torture  and  blood. 

None  of  these  know  to  build  up  the  State 

Reared  to  Heaven  on  the  rock  of  the  Free, 

Nor  dare  the  Imperial  Fate 

Which  is  given  to  thee ; 

No  offspring  of  theirs  over  sea 

Shall  replenish  the  wastes  of  the  earth, 

No  empire  in  days  that  shall  be 

Of  their  loins,  come  to  birth ; 

They  shall  pass,  while  the  world  marching  on 

152 


THE   FORTUNES   OF  BRITAIN 

Takes  no  heed  for  their  fugitive  name, 

But  though  their  brief  puissance  is  gone, 

Shall  remember  thy  fame. 

Thine,  oh  mother,  it  is,  thine  alone, 

The  hearts  of  thy  lieges  to  move, 

To  raise  up  the  myriads  who  groan 

To  Freedom  through  love ! 

From  the  North  to  the  South  thou  shalt  sway, 

Thou  shalt  sway  from  the  East  to  the  West, 

From  the  Dawn  to  the  setting  of  Day, 

Thy  rule  be  confest. 

So  long  as  thou  workest  for  Man 

Through  Freedom  and  Justice  and  Peace, 

Let  thy  enemies  strive  as  they  can, 

Still  thou  shalt  increase. 

Yet  not  long  shall  thy  Empire  endure, 
If  thy  wandering  footsteps  have  trod 
Crooked  pathways,  o'ershadowed,  obscure, 
Far  from  Light  and  from  God ; 
Thy  strong  fleets  and  armies  shall  fail, 
Thou  shalt  fade  from  the  knowledge  of  men ; 
But  march  onward,  be  bold  and  prevail, 
God  helping,  till  then. 

153 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Not  on  armies  or  fleets  let  thy  might : 
Be  built,  oh  dear  Motherland  sweet, 
But  always  toward  Mercy  and  Right 
Set  thy  labouring  feet. 
Who  in  these  things  rejoiceth ;  her  pride 
Is  the  pride  of  the  Faithful  and  Just, 
And  her  name  shall  be  glorified 
When  all  else  is  dust. 


154 


IN  ANOTHER   ALBUM 

FLIT  softly  Muse,  nor  dread  too  much  thy  fate, 
O'er  this  fair  cloistered  pleasaunce  of  the  great ; 
Ah  me !  through  many  a  close-locked  shrine  of 

yore, 
Thy  young  wings  flew  where  now  they  come  no 

more. 

Here  amid  gathered  stores  of  every  art, 
Essay  once  more  to  do  thy  courtly  part. 
See,  of  thy  kinsfolk,  on  the  storied  wall, 
The  taper  neck  on  which  the  axe  should  fall ; 
Hard  by,  her  daughter  too,  the  maiden  Queen, 
Who  broke  the  tyrannous  Spaniard's  pride,  is  seen 
Here  with  the  painter's  art,  rich  ceilings  glow, 
And  nymph  and  goddess  light  the  scene  below ; 
Unfading  tapestries  enrich  the  stair, 
And  the  dead  grandame  still  is  young  and  fair ; 
The  old  East  brings  the  Persian's  subtle  grace, 
The  lattice  which  reveals,  not  hides  the  face, 
The  potter's  fictile  hand,  the  goldsmith's  skill, 
In  costly  rankTthe  ordered  chambers  fill ; 
All  precious  things,  which  make  existence  sweet, 
And  dull  the  tramp  of  Time's  advancing  feet. 

155 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Flow  gently  ink,  nor  with  rude  blot  deface 
The  page  a  Queenly  hand  has  deigned  to  grace, 
Crown,  Muse,  thy  head  with  flowers  discreetly  gay, 
For  Springtide  summons,  and  the  hour  is  May. 


156 


APOLOGIA 

BE  failure  mine,  not  fame ; 

Let  not  the  ignorant,  applauding  crowd 

With  coarse  Hosannas  loud, 

Worse  than  the  carping  critic's  venal  blame, 

Flout  my  dishonoured  name. 

I  alone  know  the  goal  I  strove  to  win, 

How  strait  the  gate,  how  few  may  enter  in, 

How  high  the  white  peaks  loom  upon  the  skies, 

Too  far,  too  fair,  too  faint  for  mortal  eyes. 

Brief  is  our  road,  evil  and  few  our  days, 

Spare  them  the  insult  of  unworthy  praise  ! 

Let  the  conspiring  throng 

Laud  the  obscure,  the  inarticulate  line, 

Which,  wilfully  defrauding  sense  and  song, 

Drags  its  dull  length  along, 

Or  those  whose  doggrel  Muse  delights  to  teach 

Treasures  of  gutter-speech. 

Such  praise  be  never  mine  ! 

Too  great,  too  deep  the  reverence  I  owe 

To  those  whose  pious  hands  were  first  to  sow 

The  little  seed  by  Fate  decreed  to  grow, 

157 


HARVEST-TIDE 

To  the  sweet  roses  of  our  English  tongue, 

The  immortal,  honeyed  measures  sung, 

The  lucid  radiance  fine ; 

Not  the  clipt  speech,  the  dark  mock-mysteries 

Shall  ever  charm  like  these, 

Such  praise  be  never  mine ! 

But  let  me  still  regard  with  straining  sight 

The  perilous  steep,  the  yet  unconquered  height, 

Let  me  a  little  higher  than  the  plain, 

Admire,  aspire,  faint,  and  recede  again, 

Advancing,  failing,  still 

Not  far  above  the  sights  and  sounds  of  life, 

The  humble  hearts  of  men,  the  toil,  the  strife, 

Let  me  unmarked  admire 

The  cloud-wrapt  heights,  the  dark  gloom  dealing  fire, 

For  should  I  gain  even  for  a  moment's  space 

To  see  the  young  Apollo  face  to  face, 

Pressing  my  feet  against  the  sacred  hill, 

What  gain  were  it  to  feel 

Life  hid  no  worthy  secret  to  reveal, 

No  thick-veiled  heights  beyond ; 

And  I,  knowing  how  weak  my  voice  and  brain, 

Should  feel  not  joy,  but  an  immense  despond, 

And  for  the  chequered  victories  that  were, 

Only  a  blank  despair? 

158 


APOLOGIA 

Therefore  I  seek  not  praise, 

But  with  my  lot  am  well  content, 

If  only,  when  my  days  are  done, 

Somewhere  beneath  the  aspect  of  the  sun, 

Haply  some  grateful,  humbler  soul  shall  say : 

"Not  on  himself  he  spent 

What  modest  gift  was  his,  nor  on  wise  brains  and  strong, 

But  to  the  toiling,  unregarded  crowd 

Of  souls,  by  Time  and  Labour  bent  and  bowed, 

For  solace  of  their  daily  burden,  vowed 

His  litany  of  Song." 


159 


SHERBORNE 

AN  ODE 

SUNG  ON  ITS  350-rH  ANNIVERSARY 
APRIL  20,  1900 

i 

'T  is  fifty  years  since  last  we  met  to  keep  our  festal  day, 
And  many  are  gone,  and  some  are  here,  tho'  wrinkled 

now  and  grey  . 

The  long  dim  past  grows  clearer  as  we  meet,  and  not  in 

vain 

Recall  the  fleeting  days  of  youth  and  turn  to  boys  again ! 
Our  years  increase,  our  blood  runs  slow,  we  hasten  to 

grow  old, 
But  never  shall  our  souls  forget,  till  heart  and  hand 

are  cold ; 

I 

The  old  school,  the  dear  school,  where  we  were 
boys  together ; 

The  old  days,  the  dear  days  of  life's  young  April 
weather. 

When  the  future  filled  with  gleams  of  gold  the 
musing  boyish  eye, 

And  all  the  world  seemed  at  our  feet,  and  hope- 
ful hearts  beat  high ! 
160 


SHERBORNE 


ii 

Many  have  since  by  East  and  West  found  glory  or  a 
tomb, 

Some  toiled  for  God  and  country  'mid  the  city's  stifling 
gloom, 

Some  midst  wrangling  of  the  Forum,  or  dull  chaffer- 
ing of  the  Mart, 

Have  slaved  for  children  and  for  home,  contented  with 
their  part ; 

Their  years  increased,  their  limbs  moved  slow,  they 
hastened  to  grow  old, 

But  never  did  their  souls  forget,  till  heart  and  hand 
were  cold ; 

/  The  old  school,  the  dear  school,  where  we  were 

boys  together ; 
The  old  days,  the  dear  days  of  life's  young  April 

weather. 
When  the  future  filled  with  gleams  of  gold  the 

musing  boyish  eye, 

\  And  all  the  world  seemed  at  our  feet,  and  hope- 
\      ful  hearts  beat  high ! 


161 


HARVEST-TIDE 

in 
Grey  are  our  heads  but  still  there  come  bright  lads 

with  sunny  hair, 
The  gay  throngs  wake  the  cloistered  courts  where  once 

their  grandsires  were, 
Youth,  like  a  red  rose,  lights  the  shade  with  gleams  of 

rising  day ; 
Dear  Lord !  guide  Thou  their  footsteps  while  they  tread 

life's  perilous  way, 
Increase  their  years,  make  strong  their  limbs,  prepare 

them  to  grow  old, 
But  never  let  their  souls  forget,  till  heart  and  hand 

are  cold ; 

The  old  school,  the  dear  school,  where  we  were 
boys  together; 

The  old  days,  the  dear  days  of  life's  young  April 
weather. 

When  the  future  filled  with  gleams  of  gold  the 
musing  boyish  eye, 

And  all  the  world  seemed  at  our  feet,  and  hope- 
ful hearts  beat  high ! 


162 


SHERBORNE 

IV 

We  aie  strangers  when  we  visit  now  the  scenes  we 

loved  before, 
The   playfields   and   the   river   where   we    raced    and 

plunged  of  yore ;  , 

Youth  blossoms,  and  shall  blossom  still  when  centuries  1 

have  gone, 
And  young  lives,  to-day  undreamt  of,  shall  press  tire-  \ 

less,  fearless,  on;  / 

Their  years  shall  grow,  their  limbs  move  slow,  and 

they  in  turn  grow  old, 
But  never  may  their  souls  forget,  till  heart  and  hand 

are  cold ; 

The  old  school,  the  dear  school,  where  they  were 
boys  together ; 

The  old  days,  the  dear  days  of  life's  young  April 
weather. 

When  the  future  filled  with  gleams  of  gold  the 
musing  boyish  eye, 

And  all  the  world  seemed  at  their  feet,  and  hope- 
ful hearts  beat  high ! 


163 


HARVEST-TIDE 

v 
Let  us  band  ourselves  together,  sons  of  Sherborne, 

young  and  old, 
Let  us  swear  it  by  the  Minster,  while  the  curfew  bell 

is  tolled ; 
Come  good  or  evil  fortune,  bright  successes,  dreary 

days, 
For  the  old  school  which  nourished  us  we  thrill  with 

love  and  praise. 
Our  years  increase,  our  blood  runs  slow,  we  hasten  to 

grow  old, 
But  never  shall  our  souls  forget,  till  heart  and  hand 

are  cold ; 

The  old  school,  the  dear  school,  where  we  were 
boys  together ; 

The  old  days,  the  dear  days  of  life's  young  April 
weather. 

When  the  future  filled  with  gleams  of  gold  the 
musing  boyish  eye, 

And  all  the  world  seemed  at  our  feet,  and  hope- 
ful hearts  beat  high ! 


164 


RHYME,  THE  CONSOLER 

THE  injuries  of  Time, 
The  treacherous  years, 
Fate's  pitiless  march  sublime, 
Life's  hopes  and  fears, 
Defeats,  calamities; 
Their  lives  scant  power  in  Man,  to  master  such  as  these. 

There  is  no  comfort  left 
In  rite  or  spell, 
For  lives  of  love  bereft, 
Or  loved  too  well, 
Long,  self-inflicted  grief, 
Alas !  Time  brings  for  such  nor  solace  nor  relief. 

The  princely  gains  of  Thought, 
Knowledge  the  Queen, 
No  remedy  have  brought 
For  what  has  been, 
Nor  healing  balm  impart ; 
The  philosophic  brain  soothes  not  the  stricken  heart. 

But  who  with  steadfast  mind 
And  musing  eye, 

165 


HARVEST-TIDE 

To  either  fate  resigned, 
Questions  not  why, 
For  him,  not  all  in  vain 
Rhyme  brings  with  honeyed  tones  an  anodyne  to  pain. 


166 


A  VISION 

OH,  wonder!  oh,  transport! 

Oh  ecstacy !  that  fills  the  purged  sight 

With  beams  of  golden  light. 

And  is  this  then  the  old  familiar  Earth, 

Or  a  new  sphere  gained  by  a  second  birth? 

As  waking  from  my  cloistered  slumbers  deep, 

I  spurn  the  caves  of  sleep. 

Oh,  wonder  surpassing ! 

A  hundred  suns  for  one,  with  constant  light, 

Awake  the  ethereal  air  and  banish  Night ; 

Sleep  shrinks  abashed,  and  Sleep's  half-sister  Death, 

Nor  Time  disturbs,  nor  Age,  nor  failing  breath, 

While  high  ineffable  rhythms  roll  around 

Harmonious  waves  of  sound. 

Oh,  glory !  oh,  rapture ! 
For  lo !  the  troubles  and  the  toils  are  past, 
Done  are  the  chequered  years  of  Earth  at  last, 
The  wandering  footsteps  on  the  unlighted  way; 
Here  the  new  Dawn  ushers  unfailing  Day. 
Oh  calm  effulgence  from  a  cloudless  sky ! 
Spirit!  is  this  to  die? 

167 


HARVEST-TIDE 

Ohj  marvel !  oh,  glory ! 

For  see  once  more  the  lost  are  here  again 

Unchanged  in  aught,  yet  purged  of  earthly  stain ; 

And  lo !  the  saints,  the  sages,  a  white  throng 

Chanting  with  accents  clear  the  Eternal  song, 

Martyrs  of  Truth  who  bare  in  every  age 

The  World's  despite  and  rage. 

Oh,  vision  enchanting ! 
Here  there  is  work  for  all ;  dutiful,  blest 
Sweeter  and  higher  far  than  idle  rest, 
Work  that  exalts  the  man  above  the  brute ; 
Laborious  days  that  never  fail  of  fruit; 
Forces  that  faint  not ;  brains  that  never  tire ; 
Souls  that  aspire !  aspire ! 

Oh,  wonder  amazing ! 

Lo !  't  is  the  self-same  world,  tho'  seeming  strange 

By  some  ineffable  change, 

And  such  transforming  radiance  grown  divine 

As  never  on  the  sad  old  Earth  might  shine. 

And  hark,  the  long  hushed  tones  of  homely  love, 

And  lo !  the  clear  calm  eyes  which  looked  above. 

Yea,  here  or  leagues  beyond  the  farthest  sun 

Nor  life,  nor  love  are  done ! 


168 


AT  MIDNIGHT. 

They  were  two  poor  young  girls, 
little  older  than  children, 

Vfho  passed  through  the  midnight 
streets  of  the  city 

Singing. 

Poorly  clad,  morning- eyed,  with  t 
strange  look  of  shyness, 

Linked  arms,  and  round  cheeks, 
and  smooth  heads  bent  together, 

Singing. 

Singing,  great  Heaven1,  with  their 

fresh  childish  voices, 
Some  low- murmured  ditty,  half 

hymn- tune,  half  love- song, 
Singing. 

Always  by  hushed  square,  and  long 

street  deserted, 
As  from  school  "by  the  old  village 

street  on  fair  evenings, 
S  inging . 

Singing,  and  knowing  it  not,  the 

old  burden 
That  is  born  out  of  secular  wrongs 

and  oppressions, 
Singing. 

Of  selfish  riches,  of  misery  and 

hunger, 
Of  sin  that  is  bred  of  the  wants 

of  the  wretched, 
Singing. 


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AT  LAST. 

Let  me  at  last  be  laid 

On  that  hillside  I  know  which 
scans  the  vale, 

Beneath  the  thick  yews'  shade, 

For  shelter  when  the  rains  and 
winds  prevail. 

It  cannot  be  the  eye 

Is  blinded  when  we  die, 

So  that  we  know  no  more  at  all 

The  dawn's  increase,  the  evening's  fall; 

Shut  up  within  a  mouldering  chest 
of  wood 

Asleep,  and  careless  of  our  chil- 
dren's good. 

Shall  I  not  feel  the  spring, 
The  yearly  resurrection  of  the  earth, 
Stir  thro1  each  sleeping  thing 
With  the  fair  throbbings  and  alarms 

of  birth, 

Calling  at  its  own  hour 
On  folded  leaf  and  flower, 
Calling  the  lamb,  the  lark,  the  bee, 
Calling  the  crocus  and  anemone, 
Calling  new  lustre  to  the  maiden's  eye, 
And  to  the  youth  love  and  ambition 

high. 

Shall  I  no  more  admire 

The  winding  river  kiss  the  daisied 

plain? 

Nor  see  the  dawn's  cold  fire 
Steal  downward  from  the  rosy  hills 

again? 

Nor  watch  the  frowning  cloud, 
Sublime  with  mutterings  loud, 
Burst  on  the  vale,  nor  eves  of  gold, 
Nor  crescent  moons,  nor  starlights 

cold, 


ON  A  THRUSH  SINGING  IN  AUTUMN- 

Sweet  singer  of  the  Spring,  when  the 

new  world 
Was  fill'd  with  song  and  bloom,  and 

the  fresh  year 
Tripp'd,  like  a  lamb  playful  and 

void  of  fearr 
Through  daisied  grass  and  young 

leaves  scarce  unfurl 'd, 
Where  is  thy  liquid  voice 
That  all  day  would  rejoice? 
Where  now  thy  sweet  and  homely  call, 
Which  from  gray  dawn  to  evening's 

chilling  fall 
Would  echo  from  thin  copse  and 

tassell'd  brake, 
For  homely  duty  tun'd  and  love's 

sweet  sake? 

The  spring-tide  passfd,  high  summer 

soon  should  come. 
The  woods  grew  thick,  the  meads  a 

deeper  hue; 
The  pipy  summer  growths  swell'd, 

lush  and  tall; 
The  sharp  scythes  swept  at  daybreak 

through  the  dew. 
Thou  didst  not  heed  at  all, 
Thy  prodigal  voice  grew  dumb; 
No  more  with  song  mightst  thou 

beguile, 
She  sitting  on  her  speckled  eggs 

the  while, 
Thy  mate's  long  vigil  as  the  slow 

days  went, 
Solacing  her  with  lays  of  measureless 

content. 


